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that falls exactly one inch below her knees, pearls, and sensible shoes: pumps with a one-inch heel.
    Charlotte has the peculiar habit of never looking up. She always holds her head bent down and peeks up at you from under her eyebrows. Perhaps she does this to give herself a femme fatale look, the look of a seductress, or perhaps one day something fell in her eye when she looked up. I don’t know. I just know that I tested her once to see how extreme this quirk of hers was. I asked her to look up at the clouds, and she didn’t. I asked her a second time, and she changed the subject. I never asked her why she has this habit, because honestly I don’t really care. Nothing concerning Charlotte interests me very much. Nevertheless, it’s a useful quirk to know and to keep in mind, for if I ever need to hide something from her, I will nail it to the ceiling.
    Charlotte greets me with a smile, but when she sees my absent tie, her smile fades.
    “You’re not wearing a tie,” she says.
    “No, I didn’t feel like it. Sorry. Maybe next time.”
    “But I asked you to,” she nags.
    “I really didn’t feel like it. I’ve had a tough day. Please don’t make a big deal about it.”
    “I had a tough day too, you know? But I made the effort to arrange a great evening. I made myself look nice. All I asked of you was to come eat my meal, enjoy the candlelight, and wear a tie. I didn’t even ask you to stop on your way here to buy anything to contribute to the meal. Okay, forget it, let’s pretend this didn’t happen. Let’s pretend you’re wearing a tie. Would you like something to drink?” she asks, like a perfect hostess.
    “No, thanks,” I say.
    “Oh, now you’re mad.”
    “Nope.”
    She goes to the stove and says, “How was your day at the office, honey?”
    I lie on my back on her bed, letting my legs dangle over the edge. “I spent the whole day filing. All seven hours.”
    “What a shame. Isn’t there anything you can do about that?”
    “I got nine paper cuts.”
    “Oh, sweetheart. I hope you disinfected them well. I have some rubbing alcohol in the bathroom closet above the sink. You should go and clean the cuts. Better safe than sorry,” she says, turning the chicken over.
    “It’s okay,” I say.
    “Is there anything new in the celebrity world?” she asks.
    I think for a moment. “Andy Rooney is in big trouble. He made a racist comment or something. I filed that one about twenty times.”
    “What else?”
    I think some more. “Princess Stephanie had a fight with her dad about her bodyguard boyfriend. I forget his name. I filed that one only five times. The stolen shoes of Marla Maples I filed about twenty-five times. The new Brady Bunch show I must have filed fifteen times. The Liz Taylor party thirty times. The—”
    “Do you want capers on the chicken or not?” interrupts Charlotte.
    “Yes,” I answer absently. I stare at the ceiling, thinking about my filing, and tears come to my eyes. I could talk to Charlotte about it. I could ask her what she thinks I could do or say at work that would make them stop giving me filing. Charlotte’s a psychologist. But she’s mushy, like I am. She’s cottage cheese, I remind myself. She would give me a cottage cheese answer. I don’t say anything. I am too depressed, too lonely. I make myself think of Lady Henrietta, the painter of nude men. Even thinking of her and of our meeting Saturday doesn’t cheer me up anymore. I’m afraid, nervous, and anxious. Why did I agree to pose for her? It’ll just bring me humiliation, probably even terrible embarrassment. Perhaps—I realize in horror—even rejection. When Lady Henrietta, the painter of nude men, sees me, Jeremy the maggot, naked, she might just totally refuse to paint me and say, “Sorry, I made a mistake. A mouth is not a good representation of a naked body. It does not have clues and signs. Sorry.” What will I answer to that? Should I say, “Well, I’ll let you paint my mouth if you