‘Darling!’ she said, and she held out her arms.

‘My God,’ I said. ‘Don’t you think this has gone far enough? Can’t you see I’m fed up?’

‘Why did you leave me?’ she asked. ‘Why did you do that?’

‘I had another engagement.’

‘Darling,’ she said. ‘Why do you lie to me like that?’

‘Oh nuts.’

She walked across the room and pulled the page from my typewriter again. It was full of all manner of nonsense, a few odd phrases, my name written many times, bits of poetry. But this time her face broke into a smile.

‘How wonderful!’ she said. ‘You’re a genius! My darling is so talented.’

‘I’m awfully busy,’ I said. ‘Will you please get out?’

It was as though she hadn’t heard me. She sat on the bed, unbuttoned her jacket, and dangled her feet. ‘I love you,’ she said. ‘You’re my darling, and you’re going to love me.’

I said, ‘Some other time. Not tonight. I’m tired.’

That saccharine odour came through.

‘I’m not kidding,’ I said. ‘I think you’d better go. I don’t want to throw you out.’

‘I’m so lonely,’ she said.

She meant that. Something was wrong with her, twisted, gushing from her with those words, and I felt ashamed for being so harsh.

‘Alright,’ I said. ‘We’ll just sit here and talk for a while.’

I pulled up the chair and straddled it, with my chin on the back, looking at her as she snuggled on the bed. She wasn’t as drunk as I thought. Something was wrong with her and it was not alcohol and I wanted to find out what it was.

Her talk was madness. She told me her name, and it was Vera. She was a housekeeper for a rich Jewish family in Long Beach. But she was tired of being a housekeeper. She had come from Pennsylvania, fled across the country because her husband had been unfaithful to her. That day she had come down to Los Angeles from Long Beach. She had seen me in the restaurant on the corner of Olive Street and Second. She had followed me back to the hotel because my eyes ‘had pierced her soul’. But I couldn’t remember seeing her there. I was sure I had never seen her before. Having found out where I lived, she had gone to Solomon’s and got drunk. All day she had been drinking, but it was only that she might become reckless and go to my room.

‘I know how I revolt you,’ she said. ‘And that you know about my wounds and the horror my clothes conceal. But you must try to forget my ugly body, because I’m really good at heart, I’m so good, and I deserve more than your disgust.’

I was speechless.

‘Forgive my body!’ she said. She put her arms out to me, the tears flowing down her cheeks. ‘Think of my soul!’ she said. ‘My soul is so beautiful, it can bring you so much! It is not ugly like my flesh!’