“They’re short. For my torso.”

“Well yes: a trifle. Oil, that’s it.”

“Oil?”

“A dark oil. Weightless. With just a touch of pale light in it. That’s what your skin is like.”

“I sound like something to fry in.”

I lay back on the pillow. Her head was on my arm. It was so quiet with the snow.

“Were you as pretty little?”

“How little?”

“Oh: eight, nine.”

“At eight I looked like a dago. At nine I looked like a dago.”

“Were you happy?”

“Why?”

“I’ve begun to collect life’s happier moments.”

“Now you sound like Michael.”

“Do I?”

“He’d say that.”

“I must avoid, hereafter, sounding like him.”

“Everybody does. A little. Have you noticed it?”

“Too bad for everybody.”

“I wonder.”

“Why?”

“Well. He isn’t so wrong, is he? Oh, he’s a bastard. But he isn’t so wrong, is he?”

“You don’t sound quite as mad at him as you were.”

“Don’t I? Oh, damn Michael. Let’s not talk about him.”

“Let’s not.”

“Was I happy?” She repeated my question to herself. “Well, Mama dressed me nice.”

“And?”

“Well. There was Papa.”

“Oh?”

“They weren’t divorced. Papa had a small restaurant. He lived in back of the restaurant after he stopped living with us.”

“Did he love you?”

“Oh. Well. Yes. He used to wait outside the house every morning when I went to school. In his blue suit. And black hat. Across the street. And I’d be afraid to wave at him. And he’d be afraid to cross the street.”

“Why?”

“Oh. Mama was in the window. Watching. To see I went straight to school.”

“Was he afraid of your mother?”

“Of Mama. And Uncle Carmine. And Uncle Angelo. So he’d just watch.”

“And you?”

“I’d get to the corner. And when I got to the cornear I’d turn around quickly. Mama couldn’t see me. Then I’d wave.”

“And Papa?”

“He’d smile. Just a little. And look up at Mama. In the window. Triumphantly.”

“He knew you loved him.”

“From a distance.”

“Oh. From a distance.”

“Is it significant?”

“We don’t really know, do we?”

Pause. She moved closer. Her head was on my breast.

“Am I the only young girl you’ve gone to bed with, Asher? I mean, since?”

“Since my wife or since my dentist?”

“Is your dentist a young girl?”

“No. My dentist is an elderly philosopher who pointed out to me that I was past fifty and on the toboggan.”

“Well, am I?”

She seemed anxious to know. The gift (it was a gift) would have a larger value.

“Practically.”

“But I am the first in a long time?”

“Since Delores.”

“Delores?”

“A Negro girl.”

“How nice.”

“You would think so. It really wasn’t.”

“Why?”

“I was the fool I usually am.”

“Oh, Asher. Not with her, too?”

“I bat a thousand. In my league.”

“What happened?”

“Oh. Afterwards, she began to talk to me about all the friends I must have who smoked pot. She wore a green dress. Very vivid. The black and the green. My vivid Delores suggested that my friends, and she was sure I had friends, rich friends, intellectual friends, friends who had in mind small exclusive orgies, would make a very good market for pot. We could share, among other things she delicately hinted at, the profits. It did no good explaining to her she had my friends all wrong. You couldn’t jive Delores. All them books: she’d bet my friends liked being turned on anyway. Poor Delores. She’d got the wrong pusher.”