I had been corresponding with a lady in San Francisco for several months. Her name was Liza Weston and she survived by giving dance lessons, including ballet, in her own studio. She was 32, had been married once, and all her letters were long and typed flawlessly on pinkish paper. She wrote well, with intelligence and with very little exaggeration. I enjoyed her letters and answered them. Liza stayed away from literature, she stayed away from the so-called larger questions. She wrote me about small ordinary happenings but described them with insight and humor. And so it came about that she wrote to say that she was coming to Los Angeles to buy some dancing costumes and would I like to see her? I told her most certainly, and that she could stay at my place, but due to the difference in our ages she would have to sleep on the couch while I slept in the bed. I’ll phone you when I get in, she wrote back.

Three or four days later the phone rang. It was Liza. “I’m in town,” she said. “Are you at the airport? I’ll pick you up.”

“I’ll take a cab in.”

“It costs.”

“It’ll be easier this way.”

“What do you drink?”

“I don’t much. So whatever you want. . . .”

I sat and waited for her. I always became uneasy in these situations. When they actually arrived I almost didn’t want them to happen. Liza had mentioned that she was pretty but I hadn’t seen any photographs. I had once married a woman, promised to marry her sight unseen, through the mails. She too had written intelligent letters, but my 2-and-one-half years of marriage proved to be a disaster. People were usually much better in their letters than in reality. They were much like poets in this way.

I paced the room. Then I heard footsteps coming up the court walk. I went to the blinds and peeked out. Not bad. Dark hair, neatly dressed in a long skirt that fell to her ankles. She walked gracefully, holding her head high. Nice nose, ordinary mouth. I liked women in dresses, it reminded me of bygone days. She carried a small bag. She knocked. I opened the door. “Come in.”

Liza put her suitcase on the floor. “Sit down.”

She had on very little makeup. She was pretty. Her hair was stylish and short.

I got her a vodka-7 and made myself one. She seemed calm. There was a touch of suffering in her face—she had been through one or two difficult periods in her life. So had I.

“I’m going to buy some costumes tomorrow. There’s a shop in L.A. that’s very unusual.”

“I like that dress you have on. A fully covered woman is exciting, I think. Of course, it’s hard to tell about her figure but one can make a judgment.”

“You’re like I thought you’d be. You’re not afraid at all.” “Thanks.”

“You seem almost diffident.”

“I’m on my third drink.”

“What happens after the fourth?”

“Not much. I drink it and wait for the fifth.”

I walked out to get the newspaper. When I came back Liza had that long skirt hiked up to just above the knees. It looked good. She had fine knees, good legs. The day (actually the night) was brightening. From her letters I knew she was a health food addict like Cecelia. Only she didn’t act like Cecelia at all. I sat at the other end of the couch and kept sneaking looks at her legs. I had always been a leg man.

“You have nice legs,” I told Liza. “You like them?”

She hitched her skirt up another inch. It was maddening. All that good leg coming out of all that cloth. It was so much better than a mini-skirt.

After the next drink I moved down next to Liza.

“You ought to come see my dance studio,” she said.

“I can’t dance.”

“You can. I’ll teach you.”

“Free?”

“Of course. You’re very light on your feet for a big guy. I can tell by the way you walk that you could dance very well.”

“It’s a deal. I’ll sleep on your couch.”

“I have a nice apartment but all I have is a waterbed.”

“All right.”

“But you have to let me cook for you. Good food.”

“Sounds all right.” I looked at her legs. Then I fondled one of her knees. I kissed her. She kissed me back like a lonely woman.

“Do you find me attractive?” Liza asked.

“Yes, of course. But what I like best is your style. You have a certain high tone.”

“You’ve got a good line, Chinaski.”

“I have to. I’m almost 60 years old.”

“You seem more like 40, Hank.”

“You have a good line too, Liza.”

“I have to. I’m 32.”

“I’m glad you’re not 22.”

“And I’m glad you’re not 32.”

“This is one glad night,” I said.

We each sipped our drinks.

“What do you think of women?” she asked.

“I’m not a thinker. Every woman is different. Basically they seem to be a combination of the best and the worst—both magic and terrible. I’m glad that they exist, however.”

“How do you treat them?”

“They are better to me than I am to them.” “Do you think that’s fair?”

“Not fair, but that’s the way it is.”

“You’re honest.”

“Not quite.”

“After I buy those new costumes tomorrow I want to try them on. You can tell me which one you like best.” “Sure. But I like the long type of gown. Class.”

“I buy all kinds.”

“I don’t buy clothes until they fall apart.”

“Your expenditures are of a different kind.”

“Liza, I’m going to bed after this drink, all right?”

“Of course.”

I had piled her bedding on the floor. “Will you have enough blankets?”

“Yes.”

“Pillow O.K.?”

“I’m sure.”

I finished my drink, got up and bolted the front door.

“I’m not locking you in. Feel safe.”

“I do. . . .”

I walked into the bedroom, switched off the light, undressed, and got under the covers. “You see,” I called to her, “I didn’t rape you.”

“Oh,” she answered, “I wish you would!”

I didn’t quite believe that but it was good to hear. I had played a pretty fair hand. Liza would keep overnight.

When I awakened I heard her in the bathroom. Maybe I should have slammed her? How did a man know what to do? Generally, I decided, it was better to wait, if you had any feeling for the individual. If you hated her right off, it was better to fuck her right off; if you didn’t, it was better to wait, then fuck her and hate her later on.

Liza came out of the bathroom in a medium-length red dress. It fit her well. She was slim and classy. She stood in front of my bedroom mirror playing with her hair.

“Hank, I’m going to buy the costumes now. You stay in bed. You’re probably sick from all that drinking.” “Why? We both drank the same.”

“I heard you sneaking some in the kitchen. Why did you do that?”

“I was afraid, I guess.”

“You? Afraid? I thought you were the big, tough, drinking, woman-fucker?”

“Did I let you down?”

“No.”

“I was afraid. My art is my fear. I rocket off from it.”

“I’m going to get the costumes, Hank.”

“You’re angry. I let you down.”

“Not at all. I’ll be back.”

“Where’s this shop at?”

“87th Street.”

“87th Street? Great Christ, that’s Watts!”

“They have the best costumes on the coast.”

“It’s black down there!”

“Are you anti-black?”

“I’m anti-everything.”

“I’ll take a cab. I’ll be back in 3 hours.”

“Is this your idea of vengeance?”

“I said I’d be back. I’m leaving my things.”

“You’ll never come back.”

“I’ll be back. I can handle myself.”

“All right, but look . . . don’t take a cab.”

I got up and found my bluejeans, found my car keys.

“Here, take my Volks. It’s TRV 469, right outside. But go easy on the clutch, and second gear is shot, especially coming back down it grinds. . . .”

She took the keys and I got back into bed and pulled the sheet up. Liza bent over me. I grabbed her, kissed her along the neck. My breath was bad.

“Cheer up,” she said. “Trust. We’ll celebrate tonight and there’ll be a fashion parade.” 1 can t wait.

“You will.”

“The silver key opens the door on the driver’s side. The gold key is the ignition. ...”

She walked off in her medium-length red dress. I heard the door close. I looked around. Her suitcase was still there. And there was a pair of her shoes on the rug.