"Come on in. Let me get you a towel. You'll catch pneumonia."
"You're the only one I can talk to," I said. "Let me stay."
"I've got a pot of fresh coffee on the stove. Go ahead and dry yourself and then we can talk."
I looked around while she went to get the coffee. It was the first time I had ever been inside her apartment.
I felt a sense of pleasure, but there was something disturbing about the room. Everything was neat.
The porcelain figurines were in a straight line on the window-ledge, all facing the same way.
And the throw-pillows on the sofa hadn't been thrown at all,
but were regularly spaced on the clear plastic covers that protected the upholstery.
Two of the end tables had magazines, neatly stacked so that the titles were clearly visible.
On one table: The Reporter, The Saturday Review, The New Yorker; on the other: Mademoiselle, House Beautiful, and Reader's Digest.
On the far wall, across from the sofa, hung an ornately framed reproduction of Picasso's "Mother and Child,"
and directly opposite, above the sofa, was a painting of a dashing Renaissance courtier,
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