A single light in the hall fell slantwise onto me sprawled naked in the oversized towel and my arms outflung as if I’d fallen from a height, helpless.

“Violet! Hello.”

At last Metti spoke. His voice caught in his throat, he was deeply stirred. His face was livid with feeling. I thought—He is furious with me. He will fire me.

Then I thought—He will make love with me.

“Violet. My God.”

This was not an Orlando Metti familiar to me. This was an abashed man, totally taken by surprise, smiling, but dazedly smiling, almost at a loss for words.

“You are so beautiful. So sad. Like the Sorrowful Madonna—or maybe—Sorrowful Virgin . . . Can’t remember the artist’s name, something like Rossi, or—Bellini? Italian Renaissance . . .”

In the doorway the man stood indecisive, tentative. This was his bedroom, and that was his bed, and yet: What was permitted him? He had not yet removed his overcoat. His dark, graying hair glistened with melting snowflakes. He was waiting for me to give him permission to approach. He did not want to misunderstand. He did not want to make a terrible mistake. He did not want to be accused of a sex crime. He did not want to be sued by Maid Brigade, or blackmailed by the naked girl wrapped in a towel in his bed.

By this time I was sitting up. Groggy, uncertain where I was. An aftertaste of whiskey in my mouth. (Was I drunk? Who’d made me drunk?) Hugging the damp towel close about myself.

Yet strangely calm. Not at all frightened. For whatever happened, had happened. And whatever was yet to happen would happen, beyond my control.

At last unable to resist Metti stammered: “Violet? May I—OK if I—touch you? Is that what you would like?”

Yes. Yes. If you will pay me extra.

Damned Little Dog

FOLLOWING THIS, THINGS HAPPENED SWIFTLY.

Like that morning in school when Ms. Micaela took me out of class. And then to the school nurse. And then, the principal. And then, the police officers.

Safe now. Safe now.

For he adored me, he said. Crazy for me.

How beautiful I was. How sorrowful. Never seen such sorrowful eyes.

No more cleaning his apartment! In fact, he would pay me not to clean his apartment.

No more doing his laundry! Scrubbing his toilets! Vacuuming the floors! Cleaning up after the damned little dog!

The identical fee each week, with a tip. Of course. Cash.

“No more housecleaning for you, Violet. Tell the Agency you are quitting.”

Intoxicated with his own generosity. The suddenness of love.

Gay, festive. Exuberant. “Darling, we must celebrate!”

Wine, champagne. Struggling to open a bottle of champagne that kept slipping from his fingers.

Panting with laughter, together. Already I was drunk, before I swallowed the first fizzing mouthful in a sparkling-clean glass that, the previous week, I’d washed myself by hand, and carefully dried.