One morning a few days later I entered Lydia’s courtyard as she was walking in from the alley. She had been over to see her friend Tina who lived in an apartment house on the corner. She looked electric that morning, much like the first time she had come over, with the orange.

“Ooooh,” she said, “you’ve got on a new shirt!”

It was true. I had bought the shirt because I was thinking about her, about seeing her. I knew that she knew that, and was making fun of me, yet I didn’t mind.

Lydia unlocked the door and we went inside. The clay sat in the center of the breakfast nook table under a wet cloth. She pulled the cloth off. “What do you think?”

Lydia hadn’t spared me. The scars were there, the alcoholic nose, the monkey mouth, the eyes narrowed to slits, and there was the dumb, pleased grin of a happy man, ridiculous, feeling his luck and wondering why. She was 30 and I was over 50. I didn’t care.

“Yes,” I said, “you’ve got me down. I like it. But it looks almost finished. I’m going to be depressed when it’s done. There have been some great mornings and afternoons.”

“Has it interfered with your writing?”

“No, I only write after it gets dark. I can never write in the day.”

Lydia picked up her modeling tool and looked at me. “Don’t worry. I have a lot more work to do. I want to get this one
right.”

At her first break she got a pint of whiskey out of the refrigerator.

“Ah,” I said.

“How much?” she asked holding up a tall water glass.

“Half and half.”

She fixed the drink and I drank it right down.

“I’ve heard about you,” she said.

“Like what?”

“About how you throw guys off your front porch. That you beat your women.”

“Beat my women?”

“Yes, somebody told me.”

I grabbed Lydia and we went into our longest kiss ever. I held her against the edge of the sink and began rubbing my cock against her. She pushed me away but I caught her again in the center of the kitchen.

Lydia’s hand reached for mine and pushed it down the front of her jeans and into her panties. One fingertip felt the top of her cunt. She was wet. As I continued to kiss her I worked my finger down into her cunt. Then I pulled my hand out, broke away, got the pint and poured myself another drink. I sat back down at the breakfast nook table and Lydia went around to the other side, sat down and looked at me. Then she began working on the clay again. I drank my whiskey slowly.

“Look,” I said, “I know your tragedy.” “What?”

“I know your tragedy.”

“What do you mean?”

“Listen,” I said, “just forget it.”

“I want to know.”

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“I want to know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“O.K., if you give me another drink I’ll tell you.”

“All right.” Lydia took my empty glass and gave me half-whiskey, half-water. I drank it down again. “Well?” she asked.

“Hell, you know.”

“Know what?”

“You’ve got a big pussy.”

“What?”

“It’s not uncommon. You’ve had two children.”

Lydia sat silently working on the clay. Then she laid down her tool. She walked over to the corner of the kitchen near the back door. I watched her bend down and pull her boots off. Then she pushed down her jeans and her panties. Her cunt was right there looking at me.

“All right, you bastard,” she said. “I’m going to show you you’re wrong.”

I took off my shoes, pants and shorts. I got down on my knees on the linoleum floor, and then eased down on top of her, stretching out. I began to kiss her. I hardened quickly and felt myself penetrate her.

I began to stroke . . . one, two, three. . . .

There was a knock on the front door. It was a child’s knock—tiny fists, frantic, persistent. Lydia quickly pushed me off. “It’s Lisa! She didn’t go to school today! She’s been over at. . . .”Lydia jumped up and began pulling her clothes on.

“Get dressed!” she said to me.

I got dressed as quickly as I could. Lydia went to the door and there was her five year old daughter: “MOMMY! MOMMY! I cut my finger!”

I wandered into the front room. Lydia had Lisa on her lap. “Oooo, let Mommy see.

Oooo, let Mommy kiss your finger. Mommy will make it better!”

“MOMMY, it hurts!”

I looked at the cut. It was almost invisible.

“Look,” I told Lydia finally, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“I know.”

Lisa looked up at me, the tears were coming and coming.

“Lisa won’t let anything bad happen to her Momma,” Lydia said.

I opened the door, closed the door and walked to my 1962 Mercury Comet.