Cyrinda went to a gallery opening that night, followed by a dinner in honor of someone at Miramax. It was funny that she was invited and I wasn’t. I made that studio money last year. But I guess a year is a long time ago. She had never made them any money, but she had never stopped having it either.

When she came home, she was so fucked up she tripped over the humidifier. I opened the door to see what was happening, and water from the tank was sliding across the floor, where the wood tiles tipped. She had managed to find her way to the bed, but only to the very edge of it. She was lying face down, with her head and torso falling over the side. Mustering more strength than I had bothered to use since the last time there was no one around to unscrew the top from my marmalade, I rolled her over onto her back. In doing so, I placed her closer to the center of the bed.

“Mmmlaghpersatma.”

I knew, even half conscious, that Cyrinda was issuing an instruction, so I leaned in above her lips, as though straining to hear the final words of a dead person.

“What was that you asked?”

She opened one eye and answered, clear as a bell, “LIE BESIDE ME.”

Chided, I leapt onto the bed beside her, at which she groaned, “Jesus, go easy on me. I’ve had a bit of a night.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” she whispered and turned away from me.

We lay there for some time, her breathing heavy toward the wall, me flat on my back, staring up at the ceiling. An hour passed, and she never turned back toward me. A little chilly over the covers, I inched closer toward her for warmth, snuggling up against her back. She was fast asleep, the deep, true sleep of the genuine hedonist. Her hair, unclipped in places, was falling down her back like plush rats’ tails. Fox tails. Mink tails. Cyrinda wore her fur proudly, answering my criticism of her latest purchase with, “But this is Gaultier!” as if that overruled any notion of animal rights.