"What would you like to do, Zoe?" Ernest asked, holding her hand and stroking her fingers lightly. "A movie? A nightclub? Would you like to go dancing somewhere?"
She considered a moment. "A disco. Ernie, could we go to a disco? We don't have to dance. Just have a glass of wine and see what's going on."
"Why not?" he said bravely, and she thought of her gold bracelet.
An hour later they were seated at a minuscule table in a barnlike room on East 58th Street. They were the only customers, although lights were flashing and flickering and music boomed from a dozen speakers in such volume that the walls trembled.
"You wanted to see what's going on?" Ernest shouted, laughing. "Nothing's going on!"
But they were early. By the time they finished their second round of white wine, the disco was half-filled, the dance floor was filling up, and newcomers were rushing through the entrance, stamping, writhing, whirling before they were shown to tables.
It was a festival! a carnival! What costumes! What disguises! Naked flesh and glittering cloth. A kaleidoscope of eye-aching colors. All those jerking bodies frozen momentarily in stroboscopic light. The driving din! Smell of perfume and sweat. Shuffle of a hundred feet. The thunder!
Zoe Kohler and Ernest Mittle looked at each other. Now they were the oldest in the room, smashed by cacophonous music, assaulted by the wildly sexual gyrations on the floor. It wasn't a younger generation they were watching; it was a new world.
There a woman with breasts swinging free from a low-cut shirt. There a man with genitals delineated beneath skin-tight pants of pink satin. Bare necks, arms, shoulders. Navels. Hot shorts, miniskirts, vinyl boots. Rumps. Tits and cocks.
Grasping hands. Sliding hands. Grinding hips. Opened thighs. Stroking. Gasps and shiny grins. Flickering tongues and wild eyes. A churn of heaving bodies, the room rocking, seeming to tilt.
Everything tilting…
"Let's dance," Ernest yelled in her ear. "It's so crowded, no one will notice us."
On the floor, they were swallowed up, engulfed and hidden. They became part of the slough. Hot flesh poured them together. They were in a fevered flood, swept away.
They tried to move in time to the music, but they were daunted by the flung bodies about them. They huddled close, staggering upright, trying to keep their balance, laughing nervously and holding each other to survive.
For a moment, just a moment, they were one, knees to shoulders, welded tight. Zoe felt his slightness, his soft heat. She did not draw away, but he did. Slowly, with difficulty, he pulled her clear, guided her back to their table.
"Oh wow," he said, "what a crush! That's madness!"
"Yes," she said. "Could I have another glass of wine, please?"
They didn't try to dance again, but they didn't want to leave.
"They're not so much younger than we are," Zoe said.
"No," he agreed, "not so much."
They sat at their table, drinking white wine and looking with' amusement, fear, and envy at the frenzied activity around them. The things they saw, flashing lights; the things they heard, pounding rhythm-all stunned them.
They glanced at each other, and their clasped hands tightened. Never had they felt so alone and together.
Still, still, there was an awful fascination. All that nudity. All that sexuality. It lured. They both felt the pull.
Zoe saw one young woman whirling so madly that her long blond hair flared like flame. She wore a narrow strip of shirred elastic across her nipples. Her jeans were so tight that the division between buttocks was obvious… and the mound between her thighs.
She danced wildly, mouth open, lips wet. Her eyes were half-closed; she gasped in a paroxysm of lust. Her body fought for freedom; she offered her flesh.
"I could do that," Zoe Kohler said suddenly.
"What?" Ernest shouted. "What did you say? I can't hear you."
She shook her head. Then they sat and watched. They drank many glasses of wine. They felt the heat of the dancers. What they witnessed excited them and diminished them at once, in a way they could not understand.
Finally, long past 1:00 a.m., they rose dizzily to their feet, infected by sensation. Ernest had just enough money to pay the bill and leave a small tip.
Outside, they stood with arms about each other's waist, weaving slightly. They tasted the cool night air, looked up at stars dimmed by the city's blaze.
"Go home now," Ernest muttered. "Don't have enough for a cab. Sorry."
"Don't worry about it, dear," she said, taking his arm. "I have money."
"A loan," he insisted.
She led him, lurching, to Park Avenue. When a cab finally stopped, she pushed Ernest into the back seat, then climbed in. She gave the driver her address.
"Little high," Ernest said solemnly. "Sorry about that."
"Silly!" she said. "There's nothing to be sorry for. I'll make us some black coffee when we get home."
They arrived at her apartment house. He tried to straighten up and walk steadily through the lobby. But upstairs, in her apartment, he collapsed onto her couch and looked at her helplessly.
"I'm paralyzed," he said.
"Just don't pass out," she said, smiling. "I'll have coffee ready in a jiff. Then you'll feel better."
"Sorry," he mumbled again.
When she came in from the kitchen with the coffee, he was bent far forward, head in his hands. He raised a pale face to her.
"I feel dreadful," he said. "It was the wine."
"And the heat," she said. "And that smoky air. Drink your coffee, darling. And take this…"
He looked at the capsule in her palm. "What is it?"
"Extra-strength aspirin," she said, proffering the Tuinal. "Help prevent a hangover."
He swallowed it down, gulped his coffee steadily. She poured him another cup.
"Ernie," she said, "it's past two o'clock. Why don't you sleep here? I don't want you going home alone at this hour."
"Oh, I couldn't-" he started.
"I insist," she said firmly. "You take the bed and I'll sleep out here on the couch."
He objected, saying he already felt better, and if she'd lend him a few dollars, he'd take a cab home; he'd be perfectly safe. But she insisted he stay, and after a while he assented-but only if she slept in her own bed and he bunked down on the sofa. She agreed.
She brought him a third cup of coffee. This one he sipped slowly. When she assured him a small brandy would help settle his stomach, he made no demur. They each had a brandy, taking off their shoes, slumping at opposite ends of the long couch.
"Those people…" he said, shaking his head. "I can't get over it. They just don't care-do they?"
"No, I suppose not. It was all so-so ugly."
"Yes," he said, nodding, "ugly."
"Not ugly so much as coarse and vulgar. It cheapens, uh, sex."
"Recreational sex," he said. "That's what they call it; that's how they feel about it. Like tennis or jogging. Just another diversion. Isn't that the feeling you got, watching them? You could tell by the way they danced."
"All that bare flesh!"
"And the way they moved! So suggestive."
"I, ah, suppose they have-they make-they go to bed afterwards. Ernie?"
"I suppose so. The dancing was just a preliminary. Did you get that feeling?"
"Oh yes. The dancing was definitely sexual. Definitely. It was very depressing. In a way. I mean, then making love loses all its importance. You know? It means about as much as eating or drinking."
"What I think," he said, looking directly at her, "is that sex-I mean just physical sex-without some emotional attachment doesn't have any meaning at all."
"I couldn't agree more. Without love, it's just a cheap thrill."
"A cheap thrill," he repeated. "Exactly. But I suppose if we tried to explain it to those people, they'd just laugh at us."
"I suppose they would. But I don't care; I still think we're right."