I still have the pool table. ItÕs beneath piles of books. It sits in the corner of my basement taking up space and reminding me that David will show up again, sooner or later, to act as if nothing had happened.

I plinked around with it. IÕd knock a ball around to get a certain effect, but I just wasnÕt a pool person. That was DavidÕs thing. HeÕd lean on the cue, drinking his Bud and stroking his beard while Jacob lined up his shot.

ÒArt is dead, Jake. You know it. Barbarians at the gates!Ó

Jacob, only intimidated by my David, would focus on the angle and shrug to whatever David was preaching. Art is dead. Art is this. Art is that. He drowned in DavidÕs drunken loudness, his tattoo, his motorcycle. We all did. When the tide was done, you either despised the man or you felt totally devoted to him. You might even marry him.

The house was mine to begin with. He moved his stuff in the day after GenineÕs father married us at the court house. I had to rush it because I was in awe. Such awe. Every book that he produced from his boxes was just so great, so deep. His pool table and his cycle were just more evidence of his free spirit and his open mind. My first serious relationship, and IÕd hit the jackpot. An intellectual rogue.

This was around the time I started the book. My book. It was all a bunch of legal pads at that point, and all I could articulate was something about feminism, sex, and goddess religions. It had been years since I had written.

ÒIs it fiction?Ó he would ask.

I could feel my face going warm and red, but I would just continue scratching away with the ballpoint. I would shrug.

ÒItÕs just musing now,Ó I would respond. I canÕt imagine how many times we had that conversation.

ÒSo, itÕs not fiction. ItÕs not an essay. Is it like that stuff youÕve had your students doing? All of that ... uh....Ó

ÒNo, no, thatÕs stream of consciousness stuff. Just to get their juices flowing.Ó

He knew I always linked that phrase ... Òjuices flowingÓ ... with any mention of writing drills. He liked Òjuices flowingÓ. It was his clue to settle in behind me as I worked and cup my breasts. He made a ritual of it, telling me to go on working with the same concentration as he swayed the large handfuls from side to side. Fingers working a rhythm, he would whisper into my ear.

ÒAre your juices flowing now, Gloria Steinem?Ó

It was his idea to christen each room right after our wedding, even though IÕd lived there for years. Naturally, the pool table was his prime choice. He took me in his David way - picking me up, biting, scratching his beard across my flesh, slinging me over his shoulder, tossing me down, ripping my clothes, pushing and pulling my limbs every whichaway - and fucked me for over an hour on the green felt of the table. It creaked and shuddered; I was sure that the thing would collapse. David just plowed ahead, putting us in this or that posture of the Kama Sutra. He would say the names of the positions in his best imitation Hindi accent as he sweated all over the table and me.

Once I was exhausted, he picked up again and carried me to the already-christened bedroom.

ÒDavid, IÕm pretty sore...uh....Ó

ÒShhhh. Just let me play, okay?Ó

He tied me up.

He took the belt from my martial arts do bok and bound my wrists together.

I guess I just laid there, exhausted and shocked as he pinned my wrists and secured them with the belt.

ÒTrust me?Ó he smiled.

I nodded ÔyesÕ. I did. David was only one lover away from the guy who relieved me of my virginity, and I knew heÕd never hurt me or use me.

He grabbed my ankles and dragged me half-way off of the bed. My knees hit the floor with a dull thud.

ÒNaw, this isnÕt right,Ó he grumbled to himself. He grabbed me around the waist, hoisted me back up and curled me into a ball. My knees were tucked up under me and he pulled my ass up towards him. I could feel the head of his cock rubbing against me.

ÒI need you to relax.Ó

Still panting, I tried to do as he said. First, I felt his fingers rubbing the KY jelly in and around my anus. Two fingers stretching me and making me slick. Then he started to give me his cock. He went by fractions of inches, gripping me tighter and harder the more that I screamed into the mattress. My hands worked on their own to get free of the belt and I raked my nails into the blanket.

When he finally came in me and withdrew, all I could do was sink to one side and pass out.

ÒWild,Ó I heard him grunt as I let pain and exhaustion take me.

When I woke up, my belt was back with my do bok and David was drinking a beer on the bean bag chair. He was still naked.

I got up from the bed, slowly, my muscles aching, my tear-clouded vision catching glimpses of the brilliant red drops that had sunk into my white sheets. I started towards the shower, each step bringing waves of pain from my ass. I reached back, touched myself and brought my hand up to my face. My palm was full of blood and semen. I had to bathe.

I knew that he wouldnÕt want to wash. David felt it was important to smell sex for awhile afterwards. To wear it. It was part of his whole Natural Man Concept.

ÒIÕve been watching you sleep,Ó he smiled as I passed him.

ÒOh yeah?Ó

ÒYouÕre beautiful.Ó

I looked at him sitting there and somehow found the usual words.

ÒSo are you.Ó

ÒI love you, Judith.Ó

I looked him in the eye and heard a cold, flat voice say, ÒI love you, David.Ó So many years later, youÕd think I would have gotten a new do bok. I had, actually. A few. But I kept that worn-out old on as a reminder , I guess. It was my Judith-Is-Now-Using-Martial Arts-Instead-Of-Acid-To-Achieve-New-Levels-Of-Enlightenment do bok. Something from my time in the Age of Aquarius.

So I wore it.

I wore it in my back yard when I did kata and practiced. I was wearing it when he yelled to me from the fence that separates my back yard from the sidewalk. Without glasses, I couldnÕt see who was calling and laughing at me. But I knew who it was.

ÒJudy! Hey! Judy! Hey, Bruce Lee!Ó

ÒOh God. David.Ó ÒBaby.Ó He smiled. Courtesy propelled me toward him and we hugged. His whiskers seemed stiffer and he smelt of something musty and old.

ÒHowÕs mÕlady?Ó

ÒThe lady is fine.Ó

I stepped back as he unlatched the gate and awkwardly ambled into my back yard. I backed up to give him room.

ÒStill kung-fu fightinÕ, huh?Ó ÒHapkido, David. You know that. Are you in town again?Ó

ÒStill into it. ThatÕs pretty cool. Yeah, uh, I got a teacher position at the college for the summer. American Lit. I was at Rosedale .Ó ÒDoing?Ó ÒEnglish as a second language. That, and a museum teacher.Ó

ÒAnd now youÕre back here.Ó

ÒAt least for the summer. Maybe IÕll kiss ass well enough to get a position for the fall.Ó

ÒMaybe.Ó

I looked at him. Exhusband. Jerry Garcia mane gone thin. Beard gone ratty. Cyclops eye of his swollen pot belly peeking out through the open space in his button-down shirt.

ÒHave you talked to Danielle?Ó I asked. I heard my voice. Tight. Metallic.

ÒNaw. How is the little twerp?Ó he grinned. ÒSheÕs fine.Ó He grinned. ÒSheÕs studying in England, still. You remember that she was....Ó

ÒYeah. She loves it there. I remember that. Maybe IÕll ricochet my way over there some day. Guess she canÕt keep enough water between us, huh?Ó ÒIÕm sure that sheÕd like to hear from you. You ought to call or write.Ó Write, exactly, was I doing? I couldnÕt quite say, then or now. I snapped off my words like rifle fire. I was leading David closer to Danielle because I thought it was his place as her father, while I was rejoicing over the fact that he had been removed from her life for what must have been almost a year. ÒThink she wants to hear from the old man?Ó ÒShe loves you, David. She still talks about your poetry.Ó ÒAnd how are you doingÕ Georgie Girl?Ó He laughed with a new enthusiasm. That was my favorite song when we met, and fast became his favorite joke. ÒThinking about going back to teaching or do you like the cafe biz?Ó ÒI miss having students, but IÕm happy. I like it. You do have her number right?Ó I was going to give my whole little spiel about missing their need to discover instead of rediscover, but I saved it. I kept it.

ÒYeah. ItÕs with all of my shit at my new place. Hey! IÕm living back at the Ornsky, over with the summer school students in that big old brown stone.Ó ÒI remember that place.Ó He had lived across the street from there, once. Before that, he had lived on a corner one block away. Before that, heÕd been on another nearby corner, living with a group of painters. ÒGuess who I saw in Rosedale!Ó he sparked. ÒI was bouncing around in Rosedale ... oh, no, it was Hanover. I was in Hanover and I ran into Anna. Can you believe that?Ó Anna was part of the Natural Man Concept, also. The Natural Man had to spread his seed and his virile energies around. He had to defy the white manÕs conventional ideas of mating and courtship that so tied him down. Sexuality was to be a feast. When he mentioned her name, I could almost feel the intense sucking - David on one of my nipples, Anna, this pretty, waif-like, Japanese-America art teacher, on the other. They would suck and suck and suck until I found myself trying to pry their mouths from my sore breasts. She would rim me. He would go into me. She would straddle my face. We would all stop on DavidÕs cue and smoke the hash or weed that he had scored. Then on again. He might watch while she crammed her whole fist intro me. Or, I might sink back on the bean bag, stoned as a statue, and marvel at how he held her suspended in mid-air and did her from this angle and that.

ÒShe has a kid,Ó he told me.

ÒNo kidding?Ó ÒShe works at at prep school now. Her kid goes there. Sounds like a little neo-fascit white manÕs school to me, but...Ó

ÒDidnÕt mention us in her resume, huh?Ó He laughed at that.

HeÕd made Anna pregnant. Twice. Both times he covered the abortions and worked the whole thing into his philosophy of life. She never batted an eye. ÒSheÕs also...Ó I cut into his words. Something had risen in my stomach, and now I heard myself saying, ÒI hate to cork you, Dave.Ó ÒOh yeah, I guess youÕve got shit to do. I should let you go. Boards to break and all.Ó ÒYeah. YouÕll write to Dani?Ó ÒSure thing.Ó He moved forward, kissed and hugged me. ÒSure is good seeing you, Georgie Girl.Ó ÒAnd good seeing you, Dave.Ó In a way it was, oddly enough. ÒWeÕll get together.Ó ÒSure, Dave.Ó I stood there and watched him walk to the gate, open it, make his way out, close it and cross the street with a goodbye grin. I watched from my yard as The Natural Man, who vomited from drinking too much at my daughterÕs bat mitzvah, vanished with Anna for days at a time, wrote philosophical poetry full of ÒfucksÓ and ÒshitsÓ on our walls, and used my writing as fodder for jokes, walked in his bouncing way to his car, squeezed himself in behind the wheel and drove off. JACOB - The Artist, 1984-1988 I took Jacob in from behind. That was usually the way we did it. That, or with me on my side facing away. It wasnÕt that he had demanded me that way. It was kind of a consensus between us. I knew what he wanted and I had no problem with it so, one way or the other, I would take Jacob in from behind. We had moments of love making that seemed planned, more or less - both of us naked in the bedroom -when he would kiss me, touch me, and turn me away form him. I would crouch down on the sleeping mat or lean forward against the antique dresser. And then there were his impromptus. Once, I was out in the yard at midnight, my head still lofty and buzzing from a party that we had just hosted. His friends from the art department had been there. My friends from the Half-Moon. Tom and Ellen from the used bookstore. Monica, the TA, who kept following me around asking questions about my views of Camille Paglia. And, of course, a few of the tolerable neighbors. All of us wound up in my backyard, sipping from JacobÕs bottles, listening to his Lee Morgan from my stereo and hearing him lecture. It was at a party like this that IÕd first met Jake, a year earlier at CeliaÕs. HeÕd lectured then and he lectured there in my backyard. On and on. It was still his way. Drinking, pacing, staring at the ground, blathering on. So, he was drinking Burgundy and ranting at someone about Rococo something that day in my yard, and, I guess, I was dancing. I must have been tuned into the jazz, drunk, and dancing with my shoes off, because hours later the guest were gone and I was fumbling around barefoot in the dark. Where the hell were my Birkenstocks? I wound up searching for my shoes in the flower bed, laughing and hiccupping like a sitcom drunk. Fuzzy memory had led me to the garden, so I found myself feeling for my shoes among the azaleas. Bingo! A shoe. As I reached for the other, I felt JakeÕs potterÕs hands clutch my hips. A moment of shock -I had thought he lay passed out on my sofa - then I settled down on all wobbling fours. I inhaled. The smell of dark soil joined the alcohol that still buzzed in my head. Another deep draw of night air, and I could smell my own musk. I swear that I could smell my own sex - juices and ripe womanscent rising as he gathered up the autumn-colored peasant dress around my hips and pulled off my cotton panties. Blood coursed now, and I felt even wobblier. My knees and toes dug into the sod. My consciousness was drifting all over, but everywhere that my head swam, there was Jacob taking me in the flower bed. Lights were still on in the bedroom windows of my neighbors. TVs flickered and late nights talk shows burbled with laughter.

Good, I thought. ItÕll drown me out. His fingers massaged my cunt for a moment, then I felt his thickness and length ... JacobÕs bigness ... slide into me. He filled me. Jacob was ridiculously huge. I always used both hands to jack him off. When I gave him head, he would fill my mouth and go practically to the back of my throat. That night in the garden, he seemed bigger than ever. One hand wrapped under me, holding me in place while the other slid up and cupped one of my breasts. Jacob gave me his cock. I screamed with pleasure. I clinched my palm around the sod and moaned as he gave me stroke after deliberate stroke. His penetration was always so deep and full that I never questioned his ways. One morning, I tried to roll on to my back, but he caught my thighs, kissed them and held me in place. ÒStay this way, huh Judith?Ó I never questioned JacobÕs way. Hell, if it felt good .... I was just learning about that whole feeling good and enjoying sex concept around the time Jacob emerged as a lover. After all of the weird games IÕd played for Dave, I had finally discovered the rhythm of my own libido, my orgasms. And I was able to concoct some great ones with Jacob thrusting in form behind, let me tell you. SO good, in fact, that the rest of his eccentricity rolled off of my back.

It was just good sex. Deep, musty, jazz sex. It also felt good to have a routine again. After Dave and his helter-skelter bullshit, I enjoyed having some consistency. I enjoyed having dinner with Jacob. I would pick him up at the University on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays in my bulky little Volvo, groceries for the eveningÕs meal bagged in the back seat and a bottle of wine from FischmanÕs Books ÔnÕ Bottles to go with which ever food IÕd picked out. Portabella mushrooms were a favorite of his. We ... he ... would grill them on my hibachi while I kicked back in the hammock with whichever red we were drinking. IÕd offer to help, but he would shake his head, his back to me, and continue to turn the mushrooms on the grill. I had actual characters by then.

They were women. Zaftig women and expatriots. Disaffected, erstwhile Americans. Jazz singers in the twenties. As the muscles of JacobÕs back worked below his cotton shirts ... turning food, sweating over small fires ... I wrote across the blank, white pages of an artistÕs sketch book and my women drank absinthe. They drank absinthe and they fucked in the back of speak-easies. ÒWhat chaÕ doinÕ back there?Ó he asked over his shoulder one day. ÒNothing.Ó He nodded. Reticence worked over an dover with him. I enjoyed his patterns. I enjoyed driving to Hanover on Saturdays. WeÕd laze around my place for the morning, then take off in his car or mine. He insisted on driving, which was fine with me. IÕd sit in the passenger seat, thumbing through the books weÕd bought, listening to Credence or someone on the tape deck and talking a blue streak. I would tell him stories about Danielle. Her first this, her first that. I would tell him stories about France, Spain and Kenya, protesting something or other in front of the Pentagon and diving nude into the Thames. He would nod his head, say this or that, but never take his eyes off the road. Never. When he reached over and fingered me to orgasm, his eyes never left the most barren street. ÒYou canÕt be too careful. YouÕve got to be in control,Ó heÕd say. ÒOr the situation starts getting away from you.Ó ÒSure, I understand.Ó ÒI told Scotty that and he never had one accident. Never one. Always gottaÕ focus on what youÕre doing.Ó JacobÕs son Scott was around the age of my Danielle. He was a Navy SEAL serving out in San Diego or Coronado or somewhere in California. ÒHe was MarthaÕs kid,Ó he said to me on one of these drives. ÒHe has MarthaÕs eyes.Ó Martha was the exwife who vanished so suddenly, leaving him the vastness of an empty dinner table and a ten year old son who stared at him from the kitchen doorway. ÒSo it was me and Scotty. Just us after she left, you know. He was a fucking handful for me. You know, she knew how to talk to him and all, but ... I donÕt know. We just had problems. She was a regular bitch,Ó he told me. ÒBut she knew how to manage Scott. She was good at that.Ó Drunk one night, half-passed out on my sofa, he babbled about how she never came. How he could never make her come. Òi just remember her looking up at me like ... IÕd be all sweaty and shit and sheÕd just be staring ... staring up at me, like...Ó Like heÕd lost her. He and Scott had exchanged one phone call in around six years. Maybe that was why I wasnÕt at all that shocked when Jacob called me in the middle of a Sunday afternoon to say that he was taking a position in some experimental Canadian high school. Teaching on the tundra. ÒI think we should think about calling things off, you know, for now at least.Ó ÒWell, gosh, Jake. This is all so sudden. Are you sure that itÕs final? A sure thing?Ó I was eating chocolate ice cream from the tub and watching some awful sci-fi film with the sound turned down. A giant bug-eyed, radioactive crab, or something, was chasing a bimbo. ÒYeah, yeah, IÕll be heading the art department up there. I Ôve really got to do this. Are you okay about this?Ó I swallowed a gob of chocolate. The crab seized the blond. ÒI understand, Jacob. Really.Ó At one moment I pondered asking him over for a farewell romp in the garden. That gave me a tingle, but I decided against it. ÒGood luck, Jacob.Ó ÒThanks. IÕll talk to you soon.Ó He hung up. I finished my ice cream. ALEX - The Poet, 1990 AlexÕs kisses were like fruit. Like biting one of those thick, cold peaches that bursts when you break the skin and runs down your face, all slippery, juicy. Each kiss from him was like that, but each was something new. Each like a sculpture in a series. He would knead my lower lip with his mouth, rubbing my scalp or running delicate fingers down my spine. Sometimes, he would trace the outline of my neck shoulders, working his fingertips into my muscles and the details of my physique. At others, he woul d just hold my buttocks in his palms. When he gave me his tongue, it came smoothly and never failed to take me by surprise, rock my back on my heels. I would twine my fingers into his hair and sweater while I dined on his kiss. Heels. ThatÕs something else that Alex brought to my life, for the first time since high school. Dig through my closet - my cavern - and youÕll see them. Three inch anomalies. In the middle of my clutter of sneakers, flats, Birks, boots and dive flippers, there are these four pairs of high, black glossy heels. Angry heels, I call them. They stab the floor with spikes and thrust up against your body like a lecherous drunk at an all- girl review. ÒShow us your tits!Ó Alex gave me high heels. I wore them. ÒYouÕve got sexy legs. Sweet legs. You should wear heels more often. Your legs remind me of this flamenco dancer that I knew in Madrid.Ó ÒAnother exlover? How long....?Ó ÒDo you dance? Did you dance? You have fine legs.Ó ÒI have. I have ... uh ... danced ... And other stuff.Ó ÒNice. You stay in good shape. And this is after one ... one kid?Ó

ÒMy Danielle. My girl. That was twenty-two years ago, so IÕve had time to work on it. This dancer, did you write that sangria poem for her?Ó He stopped touching my thighs and looked up with a smile. ÒYou figured me out. YouÕve been reading my book.Ó I nodded and smiled. ÒI keep it on my night stand.Ó His poetry was the reason that we met. He did a signing at EatonÕs Used Books, just a few blocks from my cafeÕ. I breezed through after work, as I do, and he was just getting finished with signing his latest book. He flirted with me. He gave me a copy of his book. He played with my hands, talked about the blueness of my eyes. If anyone was to ask me, IÕd say that cute guys, especially younger ones, who did things like that were no longer capable of enticing me. IÕve prided myself on a certain degree of cynicism. I discovered I was wrong. We did the whole talking on the phone for hours things, then some outings with demure pecks on the corner of the mouth. I invited him home for dinner. ÒI grew up in Perchbach. You know ...Ó He made a directional gesture with his head. ÒThe docks.Ó ÒUh huh.Ó We sat on my living room floor, me at his feet, and he told me his childhood stories. I could smell sea water and the diesel fuel that formed slicks in the wakes of foreign freighters. I conjured up the men with the gru ff working-class accents and creased faces I remember from loading docks at my fatherÕs business. I could still smell their sweat and dirt. I placed them on docks so that I could see AlexÕs home. I added those bells that you constantly hear dinging away in seaside scenes. I gave the men hip flasks. I made Alex a misty-eyed, ruddy child, sitting on a dock post, reading form a hard-backed book. ÒMy daÕ, he was a long shore man. So was my brother. Neither went past the eighth grade, which was ... is pretty common there.Ó ÒCanÕt imagine your designs on being a writer went over big.Ó ÒNo. Not quite.Ó As he spoke, fingers broke the skin of an orange. His thumb worked like a jigsaw, cutting a ragged line through the peel. He told me about his fatherÕs heavy footfalls on the floorboards of their home on whiskey night. Juice ran across the dimpled hide of the fruit. ÒHe burned my journal that night. Threw it in our family hearth.Ó I sank. My hand crept out and touched his leg. ÒGod, I canÕt imagine....Ó ÒHe went into his thing about being a man.Ó Alex would twist his face and talk from the side of his mouth when he emulated his father. ÒÕManÕs gottaÕ work with his hands! ManÕs gottaÕ be a man! How you gonnaÕ get a woman with this shit? ManÕs gottaÕ have a woman!Õ He actually waved some of the flaming pages around.Ó Alex shook his head and laughed dryly. Ò ÔYou think youÕre more man than me?Õ That was a big one for him. ÔYou thinks your motherÕs the only one I ever fucked? You think....Õ It was a night to remember.Ó Another dry laugh.

ÒSo, how have you made peace with that night? Or have you?Ó

ÒI donÕt know that I have. IÕve tried. I donÕt know. Guess IÕm working on it.Ó

He laughed and fed me an orange section.

The real kissed started that night. I pulled him against me ... IÕll say it had something to do with his story and his leg flattery ... and we kissed for hours on my floor. AlexÕs juicy, sweet kisses.

It was that night that I dug out the hand-edited first draft for him to see.

It was the next night that I put on the high heels and the grape skin of a black dress to accompany him to the The Top of the World CafeÕ for Jazz Night.

Three weeks after that, I met Zoe.

She looked European. Like a woman from a Doisneau photo. Her hair was brown and thick, flowing back and down to her shoulders in waves. It framed a narrow, olive face with full lips, high cheek bones and these deep, sad, hazel eyes.

She was an hour glass, but still very slender.

She wore these beautiful, leather, high, high heels.

ÒZoe,Ó she introduced herself. ÒIÕm looking for Alex.Ó

I had been going over the books in the back of the cafe and was taken by surprise. Something about the stiff way that she held herself made me uncomfortable, but I forced a smile.

ÒOh, he isnÕt here. He doesnÕt actually work here. He just frequents.Ó

ÒBut you know him.Ó

ÒWell, yes.Ó

ÒYouÕre seeing him, yes?Ó

ÒIÕm sorry, who are you again?Ó

ÒIÕll take that as a yes. That makes you Claire, Judith, or Nina.Ó

A wash went over me. I felt like I was drifting for a moment. I heard myself say, ÒJudith Lieb.Ó

ÒRight. Judith. The mother. The one who runs the coffeehouse and plays the saxophone.Ó

ÒUh....Ó

ÒLook, I donÕt hold you responsible. None of us are. HeÕs a sweet guy. Cute. Smart.Ó

Still drifting. The strength left me altogether. I could hear my breathing becoming frantic and shallow. The idea of crying in front of this Zoe character burned me up, even as my eyes grew hot.

ÒListen, Judith. DonÕt feel bad about it. IÕm not mad at you. IÕm not mad at him, really. Who could blame him? IÕm not even sure why I came to your business here. I just wanted ... look, IÕm sorry for bothering you at work.Ó

I just stood there like a slack-jawed idiot.

ÒWell, goodbye, Judith. Good luck.Ó

She turned and started clicking her way to the door. I finally pried a jumble of words out of the knot in my stomach.

ÒHow do you know so much?Ó

In dramatic Hollywood style, she looked over her shoulder and spoke as she headed for the door.

ÒWhat can I say? I have no respect for privacy. Ever read his journals?Ó

MONICA - The Student, 1995-1997

Monica ran a bath for me. She used some recipe that sheÕd used found in a book, sprinkling in spices and oils that were supposed to combined to create a aphrodisiac. She lit the candles that her friend sent to her from Spain and put on Louis Armstrong on my portable CD.

She called me into my bathroom, telling me that it was ready and I needed to go hang up my mobile phone.

ÒThey will run the cafe without you for tonight. Now come to your bath, Judith.Ó

She really didnÕt need to put such Serbian bite into her words. I was already off the phone and padding down the hallway. I entered the bathroom to find Monica on her knees beside the tub, lazily swirling the water with her hand. She was naked. With her dark hair piled up in a Victorian bun the way it was, she looked perfect next to my vintage, ornate, cast-iron tub.

As I came in, a smile spread across her Eastern European features. I wore the robe.

ÒYou look so good,Ó she said. She touched the edge of the embroidered red robe that sheÕd given me two days before.

ÒDo you like it?Ó she asked.

ÒYes. I love it. DidnÕt I tell you that?Ó

ÒJust making sure. That shade of red looks perfect with your blond hair and that skin. You know, you have Scandinavian skin. You have skin like the women I saw in Iceland.Ó

I held my hands back, letting her undo the belt of my robe. It fell open. My eyes slid shut, as did hers, and she blew warm and soft against my thighs.

SheÕs younger that Danielle, I thought.

She could be my youngest daughter.

I didnÕt know exactly what the thoughts meant - I had gotten past reservations about being with her - but they still came, along with the chills and the twitches. Maybe, I just hadnÕt been that excited in quite some time. Without realizing it, IÕd begun to rub my thighs together. My juices thickened. I touched her hair.

She could have been one of my graduate students when I taught.

Monica slid her hands up to my buttocks.

ÒI want to bathe you now.Ó

I looked down to see her smiling up at me.

ÒI want to bathe you, Judith.Ó

She took the robe and guided me down into the spiced water.

ÒLetÕs see...Ó she grinned, taking hold of my right foot. She took it like a precious artifact.

Her other hand found a sponge and she began to bathe me. Again, I closed my eyes. A womanÕs hand. Without a doubt, she was more deft than Sarah had been in college. Poor Sarah, stoned and love-struck and fumbling with both of our clits. Monica, these decades later and the same age that I was then, knew her way around a woman.

I sank back as she washed my feet.

ÒThanks again for your editing ideas,Ó she cooed.

ÒOh, Monica, it was no big deal. YouÕre a great writer. The piece is so good. Insight....Ó

ÒUh uh ... nothing without you. Only a woman like you could give advice like that. Really, Judith. A woman whoÕs lived, traveled, and whose borne children. An author. You have so much to teach me. I feel really lucky. I took every piece of advice...Ó

I opened an eye. ÒMonica, those notes that I made were just suggestions. You have to ponder whether or not they say what you want.Ó

Tingling hot water rolled down my leg. I was caught for a moment by the trails of water that ran down the muscle creases of my thigh. Monica had commented just the day before how perfect my muscle definition was and how I should pose for art classes the way she does. She pined for me to let her photograph my body, and when said ÔyesÕ you would have thought IÕd touched the girlÕs G-spot or something. She lit up. She had me stand on a foot stool in my living room and move my limbs so that the muscles would rise and flex. She got down in front of me and took 35mm shots from below.

I came twice in the bath on the night that she pampered me. Like I said, her hands were deft. She took me to bed. She kissed every inch of me, cradling my breasts, hands, feet and ass like I was made out of gold. She nestled between my thighs and took a long, deep breath moving to eat me.

The clock said 2:30 AM when I untangled myself from her and walked naked to the bathroom to pee. On the way back, I stopped by the computer, flicked on the light. There was the paper. The Paper. The Book. MonicaÕs Serbian-American Journey and all of the photos and news clipping that she was using to feed her muse.

My hand glided through a salad of pictures and newspaper. Slivers of headline information floated to the surface. Alleged ÒEthnic CleansingÓ ... Reports of Rape on a Massive Scale ... Death Camps ... The photo that I thought should be the cover when her work finally became a book slid into view - an old-world man in working-class clothes, his hair slicked back and a thick leather belt around his waist. It could have been 1900, 1930, 1960. A timeless immigrant surrounded by his sons. Wiry boys, four in all, stood around him trying to look imposing and stocky. A timeless man and his boys locked in black and white.

Look to the corner, and youÕd see an afterthought. A frilly, hand-me-down dress and ribbons framing a sullen, round face. Monica was off-center and somewhat out-of-focus, half-lost behind her brothers.

I shuffled the material together and turned off the light.

Back in bed, Monica lay curled in fetal position, her mouth twitching in that funny way it did. When my body was back under the sheets, she curled into me. Her folded form pressed deep into my body heat. Her mouth lingered near my nipples. Her breathing was easy.