“Touch me, Jean. Please. Touch me like last night. I want to try again.”

“Darling, no. You want to sleep. You said so…”

“I did want to sleep. I don’t now.”

She sat up and tossed back her thick hair. Her fingers began to pluck at the buttons of her blouse. Her face was flushed and her movements hectic. She managed to undo only two of the buttons, then the silk of the blouse tore.

“It doesn’t matter. Leave it… I don’t care. Jean, please touch me. Stroke my breasts. Kiss me, darling. Please kiss me now.”

He could feel the exhaustion deepening as he turned to her, and he could sense his own foreboding, a sapping certainty that this would turn out ill. He began to stroke her back, and then her breasts, as she asked. He tried not to feel or see how terribly thin she had become, but it was impossible. He could feel every disk in her spine, each rib; her breasts, always small, were now those of a pubescent child.

He closed his eyes and buried his face against her neck, fighting the exhaustion, and the shame.

“Darling, no,” he said again gently. “You should rest, and be calm.”

“I don’t want to rest.” Her voice had risen on that high, imperious note he had come to dread. “I want you to make love to me. Is that so much to ask? Why won’t you? Why can’t you? I know you love me. I know you want me. So what’s wrong? Jean, you’re not fifty yet. Are you too old?”

That taunt was a new one. She saw the anger come into his face and gave a small cry of triumph.

“That’s it. That’s it. You’re too old. You can’t do it anymore.”

“You’re wrong.” He rose and looked down at her coldly. “When I have the inclination, I can perform.”

“So perform now. Prove it. I don’t believe you.”

“Very well. Since you ask me so charmingly.”

“Jean—”

“Lie still, damn you.”

He undid his belt, loosened his trousers, left his clothes on. When he thrust up inside her, she gave one long, shuddering cry, then began to writhe in his arms. He pressed her down hard with his full weight and trapped her arms. As he moved inside her, he felt and saw nothing. His mind was completely dark. His one intent was to succeed as quickly as possible, to kill pain with pleasure, even if the pleasure was a brief thing that would not last.

Climax eluded him; he thrust on, and then she began to speak and move under him—and this made it worse. She talked a new whore language and made new whore moves—and that, of course, was not what he wanted; that he could purchase—and when desperate these last few years sometimes had purchased—anytime.

He put his hand across her mouth to silence her. He could feel despair just the other side of some screen in his mind, but he refused to look at it. Last night had been a failure. He had to succeed now.