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even so, sometimes he couldn’t imagine himself married.
    Sleepily she stirred and reached for his penis. It came alive in her hand and he felt guilty about even that. He didn’t want to make love to her. But he caressed her as if she were the greatest treasure of some forgotten empire, till her cheeks were flushed and she writhed like a lure on the end of a line, and then he entered her as gently as if she’d break. Her body shuddered and she seized his buttocks, eyes open, fiery with passion. He could at least give her this much.
    He closed his own eyes, rocking her, and the woman under him was Di, lush tendrils like corkscrews round her olive face. He felt his cheeks go hot with his shame, opened his eyes, and said Missy’s name. She smiled and said she loved him. He said it back to her and hated himself.
    When it was over, she said, “I don’t think you know how beautiful you are.”
    “Men aren’t supposed to be beautiful.” He disliked compliments.
    “You’re the sort of person who deserves a wife who’ll make love to him three times a day for the rest of his life.”
    “How about one who cooks?”
    “Cooks too.”
    “Cooks what?”
    “Oh, maybe Oysters Rockefeller for breakfast. How would that be? Exotic, unexpected things. I’m going to work twenty-four hours a day at making you happy.”
    “Stop. I’m getting embarrassed.”
    “I know.”
    Blue eyes looked into blue eyes. “You know?”
    “You don’t think you deserve it, do you? A woman who’ll love you and take care of you?”
    He shook his head. “No.” It came out a whisper.
    “Oh, Sonny, you do, you do. You’re a wonderful person, do you know that?”
    He sat up, turning away from her. “Oh, Missy!”
    “Okay, okay, I’ll shut up.” She touched her lips to each of his vertebrae in turn, opened her legs, wound them around his body, and simply sat that way, arms around his chest, kissing his neck.
    The breasts against his shoulder blades were small and round, as firm as only the breasts of women under twenty-five are firm. Diamara’s would be much larger, not round at all anymore, as soft as down pillows.
    He shook his head to clear it, forgetting Missy at his neck.
    “Ow.”
    “What?”
    “Bit my tongue.”
    “I’m sorry, Missy. God, I’m such a fuck-up!”
    “You are not, Sonny Gerard! Don’t even think that. You’re the pride of your goddamn stuck-up family, and you’ve earned it, precious. Do you realize how hard you work? It’s not normal. It’s not natural. You’re going to keel over one day.”
    “Do me a favor, Missy. Don’t call me precious, okay?”
    “Why not?”
    “It’s a name for a little kid.”
    “But you are precious.”
    He headed for the shower, feeling slightly depressed, hoping against hope for a good day. Yesterday had been one Room Four after another, sometimes two at a time.
    At least for once he’d had a full night’s sleep.
    Though you could tell it only from the roof, Charity was actually a giant, nineteen-floor H. From the street it merely looked like some out-of-control antique, urban sprawl in microcosm, the hospital that ate New Orleans. But Charity wasn’t about to devour anything. Nurses hated working there, and many wouldn’t. It was still a good teaching hospital with one of the best trauma units in the country, but it was perennially short-staffed and underfunded.
    The building itself was so outdated you could hardly believe it had elevators, much less elevators with robot voices (which it did). Above the fourteenth floor, there was no hospital, only the now-empty call rooms where residents had once resided, and a couple of ancient operating theaters. Sonny had explored every inch of the place, knew which of the call rooms had keys above the doors and could be entered for a catnap, when you could make speeches to imaginary audiences in the operating theaters. (Now and then meetings were held in them.)
    The first time he’d seen the waiting room, where, despite emergencies