arms around his neck and sat gently on his lap. "Damn you!"
His eyes glanced toward the bedroom; she stared, smiling with anticipation, then stood and walked toward the hallway.
He gathered the wine glass and bottle, rose from the chair and walked to the fireplace to spread the burning logs so that they would burn independently and die quickly. "Who's this?" he asked as he removed a frame from the mantel.
"Herbert Hoover's brother." She laughed.
Looking closely at the glossy, he shook his head and observed, "Don't be ridiculous. This isn't Hoover's brother!"
"That depends on the perspective of the viewer," she answered as she continued to pull at the buttons on her blouse.
"Who is it?"
"Charles Chazen."
He raised his brow.
"My neighbor from upstairs. Apartment five B. He stopped in with his cat and parakeet before you arrived."
Michael puzzled over the picture. "I saw a cat in the hall," he stated, leaning against the mantel for support.
She looked at him questioningly.
"Black and white," he asserted. "It was running up the stairs."
"That's Jezebel," she said. "I wonder whyChazen would let her run around the halls alone. He was very protective about her and the bird."
Michael shrugged.
"I like him very much," she said, remembering his clothes, walk and manner.
"How old?"
"I'd guess about eighty, give or take four or five years."
"Lucid?" he asked.
She shook her head pityingly.
He looked at the picture sideways and upside down. "He looks like a prune."
She strode indignantly across the floor. "Very funny," she chided as she grabbed the picture and held it up; the glass flickered with the reflecting dance of embers. "I think he's kind of cute."
She placed the picture on the mantel.
"He sat there for an hour giving me his whole life history. None of it made any sense. He was pathetic, a little old man with no one but his cat and bird and nothing to do but to sit around all day reminiscing."
"He's better off than most."
"I never want to end up like that, to wake up in the morning with nothing to look forward to but the next bedtime. Or a conversation with my animals." She reached over his shoulder and pulled a cameo off the marble mantel. "He thought this was Herbert Hoover. And I couldn't convince him otherwise." She ran her hands over the carved ivory. "In a way I'm glad I failed."
He cupped his hand under her chin and kissed her on the bridge of her nose. "Why don't we talk about him later?" he suggested. He began to unbutton his shirt.
She smiled and followed him expectantly to the bedroom.
The room was dark. He could see very little as he stood facing himself in the full-length mirror that hung opposite the bed. The reflection was almost motionless, a combination of inert objects and dark, heavy shadows, only punctuated by the glimmer from one of the wall sconces and the graceful movement of her body. He watched as she folded her blouse over the clothes horse to the right of the bed. Her figure never looked more sensuous and inviting than it did in the semi-darkness of the mirror.
He pulled his shirt from his shoulders, placed the sleeves together and threw it on the chair. Turning from the mirror, he walked to the window and grabbed the shade.
"Don't," she said softly. "There's no one to see in."
Bending down, he looked out, nodded, and released the small metal ring.
She lay down, rolled back onto the pillows and smoothed the quilt that lay extended beneath her.
"Are you happy?" he asked.
"Very."
He removed the last of his clothing, a pair of dark brown socks, and carefully found his way to the bed. Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, he pulled her close, gently kissing her ears, and pressing against her breasts. Then he stopped. He switched on the reading light, reached out and wrapped his fingers around the crucifix. "What's this?" he asked, breathing heavily.
"A crucifix."
"I know that. Where'd it come from?"
She paused to catch her breath. "From my father's room."
"I didn't know
His eyes glanced toward the bedroom; she stared, smiling with anticipation, then stood and walked toward the hallway.
He gathered the wine glass and bottle, rose from the chair and walked to the fireplace to spread the burning logs so that they would burn independently and die quickly. "Who's this?" he asked as he removed a frame from the mantel.
"Herbert Hoover's brother." She laughed.
Looking closely at the glossy, he shook his head and observed, "Don't be ridiculous. This isn't Hoover's brother!"
"That depends on the perspective of the viewer," she answered as she continued to pull at the buttons on her blouse.
"Who is it?"
"Charles Chazen."
He raised his brow.
"My neighbor from upstairs. Apartment five B. He stopped in with his cat and parakeet before you arrived."
Michael puzzled over the picture. "I saw a cat in the hall," he stated, leaning against the mantel for support.
She looked at him questioningly.
"Black and white," he asserted. "It was running up the stairs."
"That's Jezebel," she said. "I wonder whyChazen would let her run around the halls alone. He was very protective about her and the bird."
Michael shrugged.
"I like him very much," she said, remembering his clothes, walk and manner.
"How old?"
"I'd guess about eighty, give or take four or five years."
"Lucid?" he asked.
She shook her head pityingly.
He looked at the picture sideways and upside down. "He looks like a prune."
She strode indignantly across the floor. "Very funny," she chided as she grabbed the picture and held it up; the glass flickered with the reflecting dance of embers. "I think he's kind of cute."
She placed the picture on the mantel.
"He sat there for an hour giving me his whole life history. None of it made any sense. He was pathetic, a little old man with no one but his cat and bird and nothing to do but to sit around all day reminiscing."
"He's better off than most."
"I never want to end up like that, to wake up in the morning with nothing to look forward to but the next bedtime. Or a conversation with my animals." She reached over his shoulder and pulled a cameo off the marble mantel. "He thought this was Herbert Hoover. And I couldn't convince him otherwise." She ran her hands over the carved ivory. "In a way I'm glad I failed."
He cupped his hand under her chin and kissed her on the bridge of her nose. "Why don't we talk about him later?" he suggested. He began to unbutton his shirt.
She smiled and followed him expectantly to the bedroom.
The room was dark. He could see very little as he stood facing himself in the full-length mirror that hung opposite the bed. The reflection was almost motionless, a combination of inert objects and dark, heavy shadows, only punctuated by the glimmer from one of the wall sconces and the graceful movement of her body. He watched as she folded her blouse over the clothes horse to the right of the bed. Her figure never looked more sensuous and inviting than it did in the semi-darkness of the mirror.
He pulled his shirt from his shoulders, placed the sleeves together and threw it on the chair. Turning from the mirror, he walked to the window and grabbed the shade.
"Don't," she said softly. "There's no one to see in."
Bending down, he looked out, nodded, and released the small metal ring.
She lay down, rolled back onto the pillows and smoothed the quilt that lay extended beneath her.
"Are you happy?" he asked.
"Very."
He removed the last of his clothing, a pair of dark brown socks, and carefully found his way to the bed. Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, he pulled her close, gently kissing her ears, and pressing against her breasts. Then he stopped. He switched on the reading light, reached out and wrapped his fingers around the crucifix. "What's this?" he asked, breathing heavily.
"A crucifix."
"I know that. Where'd it come from?"
She paused to catch her breath. "From my father's room."
"I didn't know
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