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Show 152 By the time he was finished, had returned the broom to its corner and the sterilized cups to their rack, flung off his own clothes in the kitchen and come around the fireplace, bobbing, to meet her, she was already dressed and rummaging her purse for her lipstick. She looked up, surprised, and asked if he could give her a ride home, a disappointment she sweetened by carrying his clothes in her lap and holding his brisk member at every stoplight, informing him when the light had changed. That version ended at her door, but another one (with its kitchen interlude vague but promising) took them both into her warm little dwelling, wherever it was, from which he was not ejected until she had peeled naked and made him rub lotion all over her body, which had chapped from its exposure to the stove and the night air. Another got them as far as the bathroom where through a transparent curtain he watched her take a warm shower and she left while he took a cold one, and still another lowered them between crisp, clean, freshly-ironed sheets which she advised him (correcting his grip before turning over to sleep) were to remain crisp and clean. He was working on the sixth one when Paul inquired about the fatuous smile on his face. "A medley, Paul," he said, masking his surprise. "Don't you ever have medleys?" "All the time," said Paul. They were sitting at the large round table near the fireplace with three other people, one of them the playwright from Bakersfield, one a drummer who had tried to persuade them to hire his quintet one night a week but was thwarted because the Coach and Seven had no piano; the third was a small, fine-boned blonde girl named Gail something whom Lorin had seen once or twice in tights and whiteface with a mime group at the Unicorn. She had a glassy smile but she was, Lorin thought, very pretty, and he had been holding her |