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Show Woodworth/200 she feels his hand on her thigh, warm, hot even, like a brand, the heat being spread out, up and down her thigh as he moves his hand until the searing is all over, and burns out everything except the pain of itself, and the joint is out, in an ash tray, and there is nothing, nothing but the heat on the surface, no inside, only out. "Good night," he says. They stop short in front of her apartment. "Aren't you coming up?" she asks, confused. Somehow, the time between here and there got lost, and she was supposed to do something in that time. Make it better. "No. I'm not." "Why?" "Because. I'm going home." "Oh." She sits for a minute, hoping that if she is still enough, the right thing to say will come into her head. "You are mad," she says finally. "No, I'm not mad." This is silly. What happens next is he come up. Candles. Wine. » "I wish you would come up," she says, reaching over and rubbing his leg. "I really do. I have some wine. I have some dope. We could get high, and then," she smiles, sullenly- "Then we could do whatever you want." He looks out the window, but she can feel his weight shift against her hand. "It isn't late," she says. He moves suddenly, so that she is frightened. He shifts the car into drive, and pulls it into an alley. "Ok," is all he says. His profile is tight, frozen. She leans over and kisses him on the cheek. He doesn't move. It's all right. Soon they'll be upstairs. |