We were both a little drunk, and I remember our kisses being sloppy. I unbuttoned his shirt, and he had a hard stomach and more diamond studs embedded around his left nipple. They were set deep in the skin, which meant that they’d been done when he was young, which meant he’d come from money. It wasn’t like I was going to marry him, or anything, but you still notice these things.

There were smooth pearl studs up the sides of his cock, so he didn’t have to take them out, just slipped the condom over them. I felt their texture inside of me as he lowered me down onto the bed. That felt great, but the rest was a little boring, the kind of mechanical pumping that guys who are just looking to get off do. I started thinking about other things. If I would have to spend the night here, which might be okay, but might be boring or depressing, too. If I should move to Allentown, after all, or maybe move to one of these little cities like this guy owned and buy a bunch of it up myself, or if it would be too boring and depressing waiting for anything to happen there. Everything seemed pretty boring and depressing. What the hell was I even alive for, really? I mean, food is great, and I like to drink every now and then, and take move or even drag once in a great while, but what else did I have now that my little apartment and my art was gone? Pollock, I guess Pollock is the answer. I thought of how long he would live. It wouldn’t be that long, in the grand scheme of things. And what would I have then? I almost started crying, but didn’t because I was with this guy and that would be uncomfortable.

He seemed like he was almost done when I heard this noise. I wasn’t quite sure what it was at first, because I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything like it before. It was twangy and deep and far away. It was like it was floating through the air, through the party lights, in through the slightly open window. It got faster and higher, then lower, then slower again. I grabbed the guy’s hips and pushed him out of me.

“What the hell?” he said.

But I wasn’t listening. I sat up in bed, leaning toward the window.

“What is that?” I asked him.

“That?” he said. “Don’t worry, babe. Sometimes the people in this little setup pay one of the people from the other parts of the city to play music here. That’s . . . I can’t remember what it’s called . . . some gourd and string instrument. It’s pretty primitive, but it’s nothing to worry about.”