eyes. Windows of the soul. Well, windows needed frames and drapes, didn't they? Brushing on eye shadow. Shutters by Chanel. A nice copper shade on the crow's-feet. The bird with the coppery, keen claws. Who was that... Wallace Stevens? A thing about birds, that guy. Looked like Hitchcock, too. Parrots, parakeets, flocks of pigeons. Complacencies of the peignoir—she could use a little of that this morning. Her robe was beat—a total rag.
We're here this morning with Johnny Moniker, the latest star on the fashionable downtown scene...
Corrine looked up at the TV set. Guy looked familiar, kind of cute. She hadn't quite caught the name—Johnny Monologue? She was almost sure he'd been at the apartment a few weeks before. Dark, nasty good looks... She'd seen him with Jeff, maybe.
Corrine scuttled over to the bed and prodded Russell.
"There's this guy on TV we've seen somewhere," she said. "Who?"
"That's what I want to know." She bounced childishly on the bed. "Johnny something."
"Johnny got his gun, shot his wife. Because she woke him up."
"No. Come look."
"Somebody we know?" he said, still refusing to budge.
"Not really. We just met him for a minute."
"Johnny we hardly knew ye."
By the time she got him to the TV they were showing spring fashions from Milan.
"Why am I awake," Russell asked.
Sighing, Corrine went to the bathroom for the aspirin. Only Corrine, Russell thought, would be surprised to see someone vaguely familiar on TV. That was the whole point of TV, to make everything familiar. It was like her dreams. Almost every morning she would wake him with the words, "I had the strangest dream, " as if she expected dreams somehow to be less dreamlike. She was relentlessly logical, like a child. Her superstition, which seemed when he had first met her to be at odds with the general cast of her character, was actually a corollary of this logical bent. She didn't believe in random events, so if the number eleven swam into her ken several times in the course of a morning she felt certain that there must be a good reason, some deep structure of which this was a coordinate, even if she couldn't figure out exactly what it was. As it turned out, the combination of mathematical genius, tenacity and a superstitious nature made her an excellent reader of the stock market.
He climbed back into bed.
"How do I look," Corrine asked after she handed him the aspirin. He shook three out of the bottle and looked up.
"Fabulously gorgeous."
"I do not."
"Yes you do. Got something going at the office? Something on the side?"
"I should. Can't seem to get a rise out of you lately."
"Hey, I'm sorry. Literally working my balls off. Plus all this goddamn socializing. We'll stay home tonight."
"Promise?" She knelt beside the bed and stroked his forehead. "Let's order in and have a fire."
"Shit." He frowned. "I've got dinner with an agent."
"Cancel it." She buried her head in his neck and began to tickle his earlobe with the tip of her tongue.
"I'd do it in a minute, honey, but he's going back to L.A. tomorrow."
"What's all this L.A. stuff?"
"I'm being sucked into the entertainment business, like the rest of the country."
She stood up abruptly and straightened her blouse.
"He's got a client I want to sign for a book. Tomorrow night we'll stay home." Russell sat all the way up in bed to demonstrate good faith. "Promise."
"The check's in the mail," Corrine said. "And I won't come in your mouth." That would put a little blush on his face. She blew him a kiss, turned and walked out with a haughty, rhythmic deployment of her buttocks.
"Great ass," Russell called after her.
"None for you," she responded.
Across the hall, Mrs. Oliver opened her door as far as the chain would stretch and peered out, her pruney face framed between door and jamb, the brass chain pressed above her lip like a mustache, her Yorkie yipping behind her. Since her husband had passed on to that old men's club in the sky, Mrs. Oliver spent her waking hours
We're here this morning with Johnny Moniker, the latest star on the fashionable downtown scene...
Corrine looked up at the TV set. Guy looked familiar, kind of cute. She hadn't quite caught the name—Johnny Monologue? She was almost sure he'd been at the apartment a few weeks before. Dark, nasty good looks... She'd seen him with Jeff, maybe.
Corrine scuttled over to the bed and prodded Russell.
"There's this guy on TV we've seen somewhere," she said. "Who?"
"That's what I want to know." She bounced childishly on the bed. "Johnny something."
"Johnny got his gun, shot his wife. Because she woke him up."
"No. Come look."
"Somebody we know?" he said, still refusing to budge.
"Not really. We just met him for a minute."
"Johnny we hardly knew ye."
By the time she got him to the TV they were showing spring fashions from Milan.
"Why am I awake," Russell asked.
Sighing, Corrine went to the bathroom for the aspirin. Only Corrine, Russell thought, would be surprised to see someone vaguely familiar on TV. That was the whole point of TV, to make everything familiar. It was like her dreams. Almost every morning she would wake him with the words, "I had the strangest dream, " as if she expected dreams somehow to be less dreamlike. She was relentlessly logical, like a child. Her superstition, which seemed when he had first met her to be at odds with the general cast of her character, was actually a corollary of this logical bent. She didn't believe in random events, so if the number eleven swam into her ken several times in the course of a morning she felt certain that there must be a good reason, some deep structure of which this was a coordinate, even if she couldn't figure out exactly what it was. As it turned out, the combination of mathematical genius, tenacity and a superstitious nature made her an excellent reader of the stock market.
He climbed back into bed.
"How do I look," Corrine asked after she handed him the aspirin. He shook three out of the bottle and looked up.
"Fabulously gorgeous."
"I do not."
"Yes you do. Got something going at the office? Something on the side?"
"I should. Can't seem to get a rise out of you lately."
"Hey, I'm sorry. Literally working my balls off. Plus all this goddamn socializing. We'll stay home tonight."
"Promise?" She knelt beside the bed and stroked his forehead. "Let's order in and have a fire."
"Shit." He frowned. "I've got dinner with an agent."
"Cancel it." She buried her head in his neck and began to tickle his earlobe with the tip of her tongue.
"I'd do it in a minute, honey, but he's going back to L.A. tomorrow."
"What's all this L.A. stuff?"
"I'm being sucked into the entertainment business, like the rest of the country."
She stood up abruptly and straightened her blouse.
"He's got a client I want to sign for a book. Tomorrow night we'll stay home." Russell sat all the way up in bed to demonstrate good faith. "Promise."
"The check's in the mail," Corrine said. "And I won't come in your mouth." That would put a little blush on his face. She blew him a kiss, turned and walked out with a haughty, rhythmic deployment of her buttocks.
"Great ass," Russell called after her.
"None for you," she responded.
Across the hall, Mrs. Oliver opened her door as far as the chain would stretch and peered out, her pruney face framed between door and jamb, the brass chain pressed above her lip like a mustache, her Yorkie yipping behind her. Since her husband had passed on to that old men's club in the sky, Mrs. Oliver spent her waking hours
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