Никогде
One
Jessicadidn’tlikeRichard’sapartment:itmadeherfeeluncomfortablyfemale.TherewasalwaysthechanceoffindingapairofRichard’sunderwear,well,anywhere,nottomentionthewanderinglumpsofcongealedtoothpasteonthebathroomsink:no,itwasnotJessica’skindofplace.
Jessicawasverybeautiful;somuchsoRichardwouldoccasionallyfindhimselfstaringather,wondering,howdidsheendupwithme?Andwhentheymadelove—whichtheydidatJessica’sapartmentinfashionableKensington,inJessica’sbrassbedwiththecrispwhitelinensheets(forJessica’sparentshadtoldherthatdowncomfortersweredecadent)—inthedarkness,afterwards,shewouldholdhimverytightly,andherlongbrowncurlswouldtumbleoverhischest,andshewouldwhispertohimhowmuchshelovedhim,andhewouldtellherhelovedherandalwayswantedtobewithher,andtheybothbelievedittobetrue.
"Blessme,MisterVandemar.She’sslowingup."
"Slowingup,MisterCroup."
"Shemustbelosingalotofblood,MisterV."
"Lovelyblood,MisterC.Lovelywetblood,"
"Notlongnow."
Aclick:thesoundofaswitchbladeopening,emptyandlonelyanddark.
"Richard?Whatareyoudoing?"askedJessica.
"Nothing,Jessica."
