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he’d never known her to make before, that he’d never seen anyone make: as they walked she’d brush her cheek against his so fleetingly he was scarcely aware of it.
    â€œShall we turn left here?”
    They were five minutes from his place, the room where, he suddenly remembered, he had left the light on.
    He laughed to himself. She sensed it: already they could hide nothing from each other.
    â€œWhat are you laughing at?”
    He was going to tell her. Then he realized she’d want to see his place.
    â€œIt’s nothing. I don’t know what came over me.”
    She stopped on the sidewalk in a street full of three- and four-story houses.
    â€œLook,” she said. She stared at a house with a white facade and several windows lighted. “That’s where I lived with Jessie.”
    Farther down the street, past a Chinese laundry, was a basement-level Italian restaurant with red-and-white-checked curtains.
    â€œWe used to have dinner there, the two of us.”
    She counted the windows and added, “There, fourth floor, second and third windows from the right. It’s pretty small, you know—just one bedroom, the living room, and a bathroom.”
    He felt hurt—as he’d expected.
    Resenting her, he asked almost harshly, “What did you do when Enrico came to see your friend?”
    â€œI slept on the sofa in the living room.”
    â€œEvery time?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    Now he knew he was on to something. Kay hesitated a moment before replying. She’d answered a question with a question, which meant she felt embarrassed.
    He was furious. Thinking of the paper-thin wall that separated him from Winnie and J.K.C., he said, “You know very well what I mean.”
    â€œLet’s keep walking.”
    The two of them alone in the deserted neighborhood. With the feeling that they had nothing else to say to each other.
    â€œShall we go in here?”
    A little bar, another, one she must know, since it was on her street. What the hell. He said yes and immediately regretted it, since it didn’t have the intimacy of the bar they’d just left. The room was too big, it smelled of piss, the counter was filthy, the glasses scratched and clouded.
    â€œTwo scotches.”
    Then she said, “Don’t worry. Give me a nickel.”
    Here, too, was an enormous jukebox, but she searched in vain for their song. She chose something at random while a stranger drunkenly tried to start a conversation.
    They finished their pale, lukewarm whiskeys.
    â€œLet’s get out of here.”
    On the street again, she said, “You know, I never slept with Ric.”
    He almost sneered—now she was calling him Ric instead of Enrico. But what did it matter? Hadn’t she obviously slept with other men before?
    â€œHe tried, one night, I think. I’m not really sure.”
    Didn’t she realize the best thing would be to shut up? Was she doing it on purpose? He wanted to take his arm back, to walk by himself, hands in his pockets, to light a cigarette or better still his pipe, something he hadn’t yet done in front of her.
    â€œI want you to know, so you don’t start getting ideas. Ric is South American, you understand? One night … it was two months ago, well, in August … It was very hot. Have you been in New York during a heat wave? The apartment was like a furnace.”
    They’d come back to Washington Square. They circled around it slowly, a void between them. Why was she still talking when he was pretending not to hear her?
    Why, worst of all, was she bringing images he knew he’d never be able to erase from his mind? He wanted to order her to shut up. Didn’t women have any shame at all?
    â€œAll he had on were his pants … He looked good, you know.”
    â€œAnd you?”
    â€œWhat about me?”
    â€œWhat were you wearing?”
    â€œA nightgown, I suppose. I don’t remember …