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Show FOR LUCK-40 her lip and snorts. I try to tell him that Easy thinks his pipe smoke smells funny, but he prefers to think she's laughing at him. And maybe she is. All of that would be fine if it didn't add up to the fact that he doesn't make love anymore, or hardly ever, not since he moved in. Can't or won't, not sure which. "So why do you let him stay?" Margo asks. "Because I've got to stop someplace." I feel like those dogs I used to bring home all the time that would either wander away again or be banished by my mother. Or am I the banisher now? Maybe growing up for a woman is when mother and bitch become as one. "And besides," I say. "He's the only man who ever liked my breasts, poor neglected little things." I'm not sure that's strictly true. Maybe it's just that most men don't dare admit when they prefer them small. Tim is the only man who has ever used them, not only for luck, but in paintings, disguised as various shapely fruits, flowers, doorknobs, demitasse cups, you name it. But no matter what he tries, Playboy isn't buying, not even to illustrate its weirder stories. What I think is, appearances to the contrary, Playboy buys guts, not breasts, which are merely a front, so to speak. What the world is crying out for are some real mensch. When I try to explain this to Tim, he leaps up and turns up the volume on TV so that Howard Cosell is sitting on my lap and shouting insinuations right into my ear. I knew someone once who dated Cosell's daughter. While he was waiting in the living room, Howard sat next to him on the sofa and punched him repeatedly on his puny left bicep: "Hey, kid, you like baseball, huh? huh? Hey, boy, want to tackle a few, yeah? yeah?" This is all part of being afraid. |
