Icarus

NINETEEN

Where was she?

Oh shit oh shit oh shit, oh God, where the hell was she…

Oh. Yeah.

She was home.

Jesus Christ, she was in her very own apartment. How the hell could she not recognize that? Oh, well. Wasn't the first time. Probably wouldn't be the last.

For one horrible moment she'd thought she was home in Russia, not home in America. That happened to her sometimes. Usually in the middle of the night. When there were shadows. Shadows reminded her of Moscow. She'd left when she was fourteen but somehow she knew that shadows would always remind her of Moscow. She didn't think she'd ever escape those shadows. The lack of food. Eight people in an apartment that made this one look like fucking Buckingham Palace. The cold and the grayness and the old men who wanted blow jobs in exchange for fucking cigarette lighters…

She reached over to her right, groping for the top of the orange crate that served as her bed table, hoping to find a cigarette. Her arm brushed across something hard and she heard a quiet moan and the thing next to her moved and -

Jesus Christ. She wasn't alone.

Who the hell was he?

Oh, yeah. She knew him.

Yeah. She liked him. He was nice. A nice guy.

Kid.

He was doing something for her. A favor.

What the hell was he going to do?

He was good-looking, that was for sure. Had a major body. Oh, God, they'd had amazing sex, now she remembered. And now he shifted slightly next to her, onto his side, and she saw the deep scratches on his back. How had those gotten there?

Oh, yeah. She'd done that. And remembering, she started to laugh, but the laugh turned into a cough and she really started hacking, so she swung her bare legs out of the bed and half ran, half staggered into the kitchen to grab a cigarette because she suddenly remembered she'd left a pack by the sink.

On her way in, she stumbled over one of her boots, which had been discarded and tossed aside sometime the night before. Her eyes flickered briefly, searching for the other one, but she couldn't find it. Had to be in there somewhere, she decided. Didn't it? Maybe it didn't. Oh, well. Who cared.

Leaning against the countertop, she inhaled deeply. Felt a lot better. Then she realized that her foot hurt and she looked down. Jesus Christ, she was bleeding. She'd stepped on a piece of glass. How the hell did glass get all over the kitchen floor?

Oh, yeah. She'd broken a bottle. Vodka. Two more Russian things she couldn't escape: vodka and her goddamn accent.

Was that last night? Jesus fucking Christ…

What was that? What was that noise?

Oh, yeah. She wasn't alone. She'd forgotten. The nice guy. Kid…

She wondered if she had any more drugs in the apartment or if she'd have to go out and find some. Another better thing about America. In America you could go to a club and find some rich guy who had drugs and all you had to do was fuck him. In Moscow you had to beg for drugs. And then you had to fuck the guy anyway.

Jesus. Her foot was bleeding pretty badly.

She could see her reflection in the window. The kitchen window that looked over a dismal alleyway. A dismal alley on a dismal block in a dismal city. The alley looked like shit. But she looked mighty fine. Mighty fine.

She stared at the shadowy reflection in the dirt-streaked window. At her naked body, so thin and perfect, absolutely flawless, and she licked her lips. She watched the reflection as she put one hand on the countertop to balance herself, lifted her right leg, looked at the bottom of her bare foot. She picked the small piece of glass out of her heel, vaguely felt a stinging sensation.

She stood there on one leg in the kitchen, naked, a small stream of blood trickling onto the floor from the bottom of her foot, staring, transfixed, at her image in the window, flickering and shining in the gray morning light.

What the hell was that?

Oh, yeah. Christ, how could she keep forgetting? That guy was there, in her bed.

That guy who was going to do something for her. What the hell was he going to do?

Wait… hold on a second! She remembered! All right! Fuckin' A! She remembered! It was something great. He was going to do something major for her.

What the hell was it again?

Oh, yeah.

He was going to save her fucking life.

– "-"-"THE MORTICIAN It was on the first night of her honeymoon that she realized she did not like her husband.

No, it was more than that.

By midnight, within ten hours of their exchanging marriage vows, she knew that she hated him.

She didn't panic when she realized her mistake; she was not the panicking type. But it surprised her that she'd been so wrong, so off in her perception. After all, she was not a kid when they met, certainly not naive, but she had never been pursued by a man like Joe. He'd been so single-minded, so overwhelming. She was twenty-six years old when he spotted her working in Tiffany's. He was fourteen years older and not exactly handsome, but thickly sensual and solemnly charming. He'd come in to buy a piece of jewelry for another woman, she assumed his wife, but with no prompting he said he wasn't married, that he'd never been married. She thought he was lying – she could see instantly how he looked at her, the way his eyes betrayed his cool demeanor and revealed his desire for her-but it turned out he was telling the truth. Forty years old and never married. Okay. Fine. The jewelry was for a girlfriend. "She looks like you," he said, "only not as good. Not as…" He hesitated, he couldn't find the right word, and then he came up with it: "Elegant." Then he told her to pick out something that she liked, something that would look right on her; he could tell from that if he wanted to buy it. When she asked him the price range, he smiled. It wasn't an arrogant smile or a pretentious one. She liked his smile. It dazzled her and made her a little weak because it was the smile of someone who was used to getting absolutely everything he wanted. He didn't have to say anything after that smile. She knew it meant that the price didn't matter. That the price never mattered.

She picked out a diamond necklace. It was something she'd neither craved nor particularly admired, but it was something she appreciated as beautiful. It was cold and very expensive and perfectly crafted. She put it around her neck, her arms snaking over the top of her back to effortlessly close the clasp. She let her arms linger in the air for just a moment, feeling her own thick hair envelop and hide her fingers, and she saw his eyes flicker, taking her in from head to toe. Her legs, which were spectacular and long and quite visible through the waist-high slit in her full-length skirt. Her breasts, which were full and firm. Her porcelain skin, looking as if it was untouched by the sun, gleaming even whiter against her dark, dark hair, which hung straight down to her shoulders. All it took was those few seconds, that pose, she could feel it. Then her arms unfurled from behind her neck, came back down to her sides, and his eyes settled on the necklace. The diamonds no longer looked cold and distant. They were hot and steamy against her pale skin.

He nodded. Again, no words were necessary. He handed her his credit card and when she lifted her hands again, went to remove the necklace, he reached out and stopped her. Put one hand on her elbow and said, "No. It's for you now."

Three months later, she quit her job.

Six months after that, they were married.

She'd known what he did for a living before the wedding. And it didn't bother her. The fact that he was always in the news was a little troubling – she was a fairly private person and she knew that things would be different now – but it was also exciting. And that's really what she was about, she knew that. Not money. Not sex. Not love. Excitement. The day after their engagement, her photo was on the front page of the Post, and three old friends whom she hadn't seen in several months called her to say Do you know what you're doing? She did know. And she didn't care. She didn't think he was any different from any other successful businessman. She had no problem with the morality of what he did or that she was about to become a part of it. She had no problem with anything until the wedding.

They spent almost all their time together in the several months before the big event. They talked incessantly – he was bright and witty and surprisingly learned. He made her feel ignorant and during that period she began to read again. History, mostly, which he encouraged, but novels, too. And biographies of businessmen and politicians and leaders of social movements. He liked to entertain and she proved herself a good hostess. She could be warm and inviting as well as invisible, and she had an instinctive awareness when each talent was needed. Sex between them was fine. Not the best she'd ever had but passionate and quite physical and sometimes romantic because they really were in love.

The ceremony was at a grandiose Catholic church in mid-Long Island; the party was at Joe's father's estate nearby. An elegant and tasteful affair. Perhaps five hundred people, maybe ten of whom were her friends. She knew that after the marriage those friendships would fade and, before long, disappear, but that was all right with her, too. She didn't care.

What she did care about happened while they were cutting the wedding cake.

He'd put the ring on her finger, they'd taken their vows. Their kiss was long and lingering and people cheered and applauded. They danced, a wonderful-looking couple gliding across the floor, then they moved to the table with the three-tier chocolate cherry creation. She picked up the knife, smiling and loving, went to cut the dessert, but he moved so quickly, his hand just shot out, grabbing hers, covering it. And suddenly she realized she couldn't move her hand, he was squeezing it, and very quietly he said, "Not by yourself. With me. We do it together. You don't do anything by yourself. Not now, not ever again."

For a moment she thought he was kidding. She smiled questioningly and said, "Honey, what are you…?" She didn't finish her sentence because she didn't have to. By then she'd seen the look in his eyes. And it terrified her. Made her knees buckle. He thought it was all the excitement. He thought it was the overpowering pleasure of the moment. But it wasn't.

What she saw when she looked in his eyes was: You're mine.

She'd become a possession. His possession.

They got on the plane several hours later, flew down to Peter Island in the Caribbean, where they had a spectacular four-bedroom villa overlooking the sea, on top of the hillside, with a cook and a maid and a chauffeur to take them to the beach or to town for shopping, all just for the two of them. They ate slowly and kissed and groped each other during the marvelous dinner, then they made love, slowly and lovingly. It was so wonderful she thought that maybe she was way off base; he had been joking when they'd stood at the wedding cake. The thought made her happy, so she kissed him, started babbling, just because she was so relieved. She told him what she'd been thinking about doing with the house, she didn't want a decorator, she would do it, if it took longer so be it, but they'd be sure to love everything that was around them And that's when he spoke. Said those words that chilled her to the bone.

"When we have our kids," he said, "the names are already picked out."

She didn't understand at first. But she stopped her babbling and just said, "What?"

So he repeated it. And when she looked at him, confused, he said, matter-of-factly, "I just want you to know that everything's decided already. Today, tomorrow, two years from now. It's already done. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

She did indeed. She understood all too well. What he was saying was: You belong to me. That's what his eyes had said at the wedding, and that's what he was saying there, by the sea, while they were naked on the floor of the villa. It's what his eyes would always say now, and she knew it was true.

She did belong to him. And she hated it.

She hated him because of it.

She had her first affair the day before their first wedding anniversary.

It wasn't an easy thing to arrange, not at the beginning. She couldn't stay too close to home. But she'd gone back to school to finish her college degree and there, at NYU, in an undergraduate business class, she seduced her professor. He didn't know who she was, who Joe was, and the affair lasted a month until he found out. She didn't mind when he said he couldn't see her anymore. She was already bored with him. And she already knew she was going to get an A in the class.

It was not a spectacular affair, as far as affairs go, but it was exhilarating to her. Remarkably freeing. She went back to Joe with her mind at ease after that month, threw herself into the role of wife, knowing that he had lost a little piece of her, that she had regained just a small fragment of her own self.

Eighteen years later, she was older than Joe was when they'd first met. She was forty-four now and still having affairs. One a year.

She still looked great. Possibly even better than when she was twenty-six. Joe told her that all the time. He couldn't believe it. "Look at me," he'd say. "I've gained thirty pounds and my hair's as white as Santa's. But you…" And then he'd smile that same confident smile. "You look exactly the same. Even more beautiful."

Then his eyes would shine with pride.

And ownership.

Of course, her beauty wasn't without effort. She'd had a personal trainer for six years now. The latest one came to the apartment three times a week, sometimes even to the Long Island house, although usually when Joe was away. His workout was brutal. She ached constantly. But the results were splendid. Her body was back to what it had once been, before Joe, before the kids, before the eighteen years had somehow slipped away.

She was mad for the trainer. He was quite lovely. And he was gloriously young.

The first time he didn't show up for an appointment – he called to cancel early that morning – she pouted. She missed him throughout the entire day. She was unhappy. Several weeks later, he canceled again, a Friday session, and she was angry. Miserable. She didn't sleep that night and even Joe noticed that something was wrong. Her anger stayed with her all weekend, until she saw him again early Monday afternoon. Kid Demeter walked in the door and she was happy again. Relaxed.

After that, she began to think about him often. She would lie in bed, Joe curled up next to her, and she would be thinking about the boy. There was something special about him. As if there was much, much more to him than what she was allowed to see. And soon she had seen quite a bit.

Most of her affairs lasted no more than a month. That was all she desired. Anything more than that could get complicated and messy and she desired no complications or mess in her life. But her affair with the trainer had gone on for nearly a year now. And she was addicted. When he wasn't there, she craved him. When he was there, she dreaded his leaving. She bought him things, took him places, tried to please him, and the only subject that was off-limits was the future because he was young and she was not and no matter how spectacular she looked, she could not be a part of his future.

For them there was no future.

Which meant for her there was no future.

Sometimes, late at night, she forced herself to think about that. She made herself focus on what she would do if he ever left her.

The answer surprised her. And disturbed her. For she had no answer.

It was unimaginable.

It would never happen, she finally decided. Could never happen.

She owned him. He belonged to her. He was hers.

At last, she had her own possession. And one did not just let one's possessions up and go. Disappear. Who knew that better than she did?

No, being left was not acceptable. It was too horrible. Too painful.

Unimaginable.

– "-"-"THE ENTERTAINER She was very pretty. Muy bonita.

Really and truly. Es verdad.

Very, very pretty. Muy muy bonita.

She knew that she was, and she was more than willing to take advantage of it. How could she not? She saw how heads turned when she walked down the street, especially when she wore that little black skirt and the gray tank top, the one that just managed to reveal the thin ripple of muscle on her shoulder and down her back. And she knew that her body was superb, as good as it had ever been. Why shouldn't it be? She worked out two or three hours a day now, so her arms and legs were hard and thin, her stomach was cut and flat. Her breasts weren't large, but they were fine. Everyone told her to make them bigger, to have the surgery, all the other girls did, but she just couldn't bring herself to do it. She liked her breasts, her little chi chis, liked that they were really her. She lost some customers because they were too small but she didn't really care. She wasn't going to start slicing herself up, changing herself. She really and truly would not do that. At least not yet.

Men wanted her, that was clear. And because of that she could get them to give her almost anything she wanted. Presents. Expensive dinners. Or just good old-fashioned money. One man, old, in his forties, probably, maybe even his fifties, with a paunch and saggy chicken skin on his chin and neck, wanted to give her an apartment. He was Indian, she thought. Maybe Arab. She wasn't sure. She just knew he was dark, much darker than her, and had an accent and that saggy skin. She already had an apartment, though, a nice one, with a view of the East River. It was the one thing she paid for herself. She liked paying for it. Really and truly. It made her feel grown-up and as safe as she could ever feel. So she told the dark old man that she didn't want his apartment. It was the only thing of any importance that she'd ever turned down. She thought it would make her feel good, turning it down, paying her own way, but it didn't. It only made her feel sad.

It made her sad, too, that she could get men to beg and humiliate themselves just to touch her. But it also excited her, made her feel powerful, at least for a while. When it was over, she'd just feel empty again. It was like when she was little. When her dad would come into her room at night, when everyone else was asleep. She saw what she could do to him. She would tease him and his eyes would harden; they wouldn't stare at her, they'd stare into her. She would run her little hand across his neck and call him funny names and she could feel him tense, but more than that, she could feel him succumb to her. She could tell that he liked her, even though he rarely said it. She could tell that he loved her, really and truly loved her, even though he never said it. She could tell, even at that age, that he wanted her for some overwhelming and incomprehensible purpose. He never said anything about that, either, but he didn't have to. She saw it in his eyes when they burned into her. He said nothing but his eyes said por favor.

He never touched her, though. He never got the chance. Her mother also saw the look in his eyes and one day said something about it. Soon after that, her father was gone. She was allowed to see him, but only when another grownup was present. At first, he came once a week. Soon, every two or three weeks. Then, less often than that. Finally he just stopped coming. Her mother said she was lucky. They were all lucky. Particularly so when, less than a year after the divorce, a new man came into their lives and her mother remarried. A wonderful man. A pillar of the community. A man devoted to his new family, her mother said. So proper. And good. And moral.

And white. So very white, which is why her dear madre thought he was so perfect. So clean.

But she wasn't surprised when her stepfather came into her room that first time, that night when everything changed. He had been nothing but kind to her. Helped her with her homework. Smoothed things out when her mother got impatient with her. She liked him fine, decided she could probably grow to love him. But she'd seen that same look in his eyes.

For favor.

Only he said it in English. Said it the way a white man would say it.

She wasn't unhappy when he got down on his knees and whispered that he'd do anything for her. He pleaded and cajoled and stroked her hair, so soft, so gently, and yet she knew that she couldn't pull away, that he wouldn't let her pull away. He'd do anything for her, he said, over and over again, if she'd only do one little thing for him. One little tiny thing that would make him so happy. So she did, that night and many nights after that. It always made him happy, just as he'd said, and she never felt ashamed. It thrilled her and made her proud. Until he'd go away and ignore her. Or worse, yell at her. And sometimes hit her. That was always in the daytime. Then he'd be back in the middle of the night, sorrowful and repentant and begging her to be his little girl and let him love her. She tried telling her mother but her mother wouldn't hear a word of it. Didn't believe her. Refused to even listen because it was impossible for this man to be unclean. So she stopped talking about it and just accepted it as a fact of life. She liked the pleasure and could put up with the pain. It went on for a long time, the begging and the yelling and the hitting and the loving. Until eventually it was no longer thrilling. Eventually it just made her feel empty, like everything else.

Really and truly empty.

When she first started her job, she didn't let the men touch her. Just teased them. And flirted, of course. Then, somehow, that stopped, the barrier disappeared, and they were grabbing her, pawing her, breathing hard and rolling their eyes back like they were having a fit. At some point, she realized that the touching meant nothing to her. So she allowed it. And while she would still get sad and empty, it was all somehow funny to her, too. When she would see them, so hungry for her, so hungry for everything, she would laugh. Sometimes to herself, sometimes right in their face. It never seemed to bother them, the laughter. As long as they got what they wanted. That was the number-one lesson she'd learned over the past three years: nothing matters as long as you get what you want.

She didn't know how long this life could go on. She feared that it would come to an end, and sooner rather than later. Because she knew something. She had a secret. A secret that terrified her. Really and truly frightened her. Kept her awake at night. Sometimes made her break into a cold sweat when all she was doing was sitting on the white, fluffy couch in her living room, having a cup of tea with her feet tucked under her. She was certain that no one knew this secret other than her. She was sure that no one even suspected it. But there it was, and she lived with it every minute, until it got bigger and bigger and now it gnawed at her day and night and scared her and made her sweat.

Oh, yes, she was pretty.

But she wasn't pretty enough.

Her nose was too large and pushed off to the side, ever so slightly. Her teeth were excellent, white and even, but her gums were too prominent. When her lips curled back, they showed too much of her pink gums and she hated that. It's why she rarely smiled.

She wasn't crazy about her skin, either. It was dry, no matter how much expensive moisturizer she kept on it, and it wasn't smooth. There were imperfections, little bumps and hairs; when she stared at it under the bright lights of her makeup mirror it sometimes made her sick. Really and truly ill. She would stare at the magnified flaws in her skin for five minutes, ten minutes, sometimes as long as half an hour, and then her stomach would hurt and she'd have to lie down. And when she'd lie down, she'd think about her hips, how they were too wide, they really and truly were. Oh, no one could tell now, but she knew what was going to happen in another ten years. That might seem like an eternity, but it had already been three years since she'd come to New York and that had gone by in a flash. It seemed like yesterday. So she knew that any minute her hips would widen and her triceps would sag and she'd have her mother's body and once that happened, men wouldn't love her, they'd leave her, just like they left her mother…

No. She couldn't go there. Once that happened, everything would change. But for now, it was her secret. No one else knew what would happen as she got older. The same way no one knew what she was like before. All they knew was what she was now. Muy muy bonita with a perfect body and small chi chis that were still her own.

Then she found out that one other person knew. Just one. She had told him about her past, about her father and the way he crept into her room at night. About her parents' divorce and her stepfather and her mother's religious conversion, and her sister's suicide and her other sister's drinking. Yeah, she was the one who revealed to him what she'd been. But he'd figured out on his own what she was going to become. Somehow, he'd seen it for himself. Watched her as she stared at her own face in the mirror. And when she turned to him, realizing that he was there, in the bathroom doorway, he'd said, "Scared." Said it very plain and simple. Not really a question, much more definite than that. More of an answer.

"Why should I be scared?" she asked, and flipped her streaked blonde hair. Men melted when she flipped her hair. Especially since it had been streaked.

He didn't melt, though. Just stared at her for another few seconds. And then said, "Because you're smart enough to know what's going to happen to you."

She wanted to ask: What do you mean? What's going to happen to me? But she didn't, because he was right. She already knew.

Just as he knew that she wasn't pretty enough.

That was the first time it occurred to her that she was in love with Kid.

It was also the first time she realized what she was capable of.

It was the first time she thought she could kill him.

Es verdad.

Really and truly kill him.

– "-"-"THE MURDERESS She couldn't believe her life was turning out so well.

So far, it had been a dream of a day. She woke up, alone and liking it. Went for a run, did the entire Central Park reservoir twice around. She ran easily, with her mind clear, able to concentrate on exactly what she was doing: putting one foot in front of the other, breathing deeply, in and out. She kept her own pace, competed against no one. Ran out of the park until she was half a block from her apartment building – she adored living on the Upper West Side; what could be better? – then walked briskly the rest of the way, smiled at her doorman, rode up in the quiet elevator, stepped back into the apartment she loved so much. She spent a minute stepping through the apartment, touching the art on the walls, the piece of fabric from India that had been mounted and framed and hung in the living room over the elegant Shabby Chic couch. Touching them made them real to her. The way her life was now real to her.

She had ground the dark, French Roast coffee beans the night before and put the powder in the top of the gleaming black Cuisinart coffee maker, along with a dash of cinnamon and a touch of vanilla, so all she had to do was pour in four cups' worth of water and flick the switch. The aroma of brewing coffee immediately filled the kitchen while she yanked her sweaty clothes off, dropped them on the living room floor and left them there, ran in and took a hot shower, let the steaming water, pleasant little stings of heat, rain down on her body while she scrubbed herself clean and shampooed her hair vigorously, twice.

Her clothes had been laid out the night before – organized was better, she had long ago concluded – and she stepped into the suit she'd decided to wear that day to work. She wouldn't get home before the party she was hosting that night, so this outfit would have to suffice for both. The black pinstriped skirt was short enough to be revealing and sexy but loose enough to be tasteful. The matching jacket was conservative but beautifully tapered. She buttoned it to within two buttons of the top, revealing only her long, graceful neck and the very top of her angular chest. To counter the conservatism of the cut and fabric, she wore no shirt underneath. Let everyone wonder. She had concluded something else long ago: mystery was also better.

She wore two-inch heels. She'd be on her feet all day, but she decided against flats, went with the Manolo Blahnik slingbacks that had been such an extravagance when she'd bought them. The extra inches boosted her up to five foot five and that, she decided, was a respectable height.

Her reddish hair – once a mousy brown, now lightly hennaed so it had a coppery glow – was layered and cut short. She'd had it touched up the day before. She wanted everything to be in place for tonight. Tonight was meant to be special.

She nudged the toe of her right shoe under her running shirt and sweatpants and kicked them up in the air. Cupping her hands and catching them expertly, she dropped them in the hamper in the hallway closet, went back into the kitchen and had two cups of black coffee – why, she wondered, does four cups of water always make only two and a half cups of coffee – while she read the Times, which had been delivered to her front door.

Even the long subway ride down to work had been particularly nice. A very handsome guy eyed her appreciatively the whole way down. He was around her age, wore expensive jeans and a pressed and firmly starched white shirt, and there was nothing leering about his stare. He got off the train before she did and he smiled at her, an appreciative smile, acknowledging the fact that she looked good and that it was nice to see someone who looked good.

Work, too, had been easy so far. She'd made the sale she'd been hoping all week to make. The clients had been indecisive but ultimately had trusted both her taste and her assessment that the piece they were buying was going to appreciate substantially in value. She was thrilled when they'd finally said okay; she didn't even bother to try hiding her pleasure. She had a bottle of Perrier Jouet sent to their apartment with a note that read, "You made the right choice. Drink this while enjoying your new purchase," and she received a dozen roses from them – sent before they could have received her gift – with a note that said, "Thanks for making our lives easier and more pleasurable."

She had a delicious little lunch right around the corner – turkey on black bread with Brie and honey mustard – and then a cappuccino with skim milk at the Italian coffee place a block farther away, one of the last neighborhoody places, sad to say, left in that part of SoHo. Gianni, the usually grouchy seventy-ish counterman, even threw in a chocolate biscotti, saying, "On you it looks good."

It was only toward the end that the dream of a day took a rocky turn. She was on the phone, doing a favor for another customer, giving some advice to a young artist who was looking for a place to display, when she heard the front door open and he walked in. Flustered, she didn't get off the phone, talked to the artist for perhaps five more minutes. Knowing she was being rude but not really caring, not knowing what else to do exactly. Then the conversation was exhausted and she hung up, had to deal with the situation.

"I wanted to see you," he said.

He looked good. Of course, he always looked good. This was him at his best, though. Tight jeans worn over a pair of brown cowboy boots, a yellow T-shirt. A light beige suede jacket. Hair mussed. Why couldn't he ever keep his hair combed?

"You know I'm happy to see you. But we've been through all this," she told him.

"This is different," Kid said. "It's not what you think. I just need to talk."

She smiled, not exactly believing that all he wanted to do was talk.

He saw her smile and said, without smiling in return, "I need help."

"What kind of help?" she asked and now she believed him because she'd never seen him quite so serious.

"Can you meet me later? Tonight?"

"I can't," she said, and felt as if she were lying but she wasn't. Tonight was too important and she couldn't leave. When he kept staring at her, she repeated it, stressing the word so he'd at least try to understand, "I cant."

He still said nothing, and in the silence she thought, He knows so much about me. More than almost anyone. Then she thought, What he could do with what he knows. What he could do…

"Please," he said. The word was so faint that she wasn't sure she had heard it at all. Then he said it again, firmer. "Please."

"I'm sorry," she told him, and she couldn't believe the words were coming out of her mouth. She was being so strong. Or was she being cruel? Or worse, self-destructive?

She watched him turn, disappointed and hurt, and go out the door, saunter away down the cobblestone street. He did tend to saunter.

The phone rang again. It was the artist-in-waiting, with a couple more questions. She gave him answers but she didn't really hear the questions. She was too busy thinking about the end of her perfect day, and what it meant, him being hurt like this. She realized that she would have to go see him one day. Soon. And she realized what she was going to have to do.

And why.