"Sorry!" I gasped, closing the door again. From outside, I shouted.
"I'm your neighbor across the hall. I locked myself out, and I wanted to use the fire escape to get over to my window."
The door swung open and she faced me, still in her underwear, a brush in each hand and hands on her hips.
"Didn't you hear me say come in?" She waved me into the apartment, pushing away a carton full of trash.
"Just step over that pile of junk there." I thought she must have forgotten—or not realized—she was undressed, and I didn't know which way to look.
I kept my eyes averted, looking at the walls, ceiling, everywhere but at her.
The place was a shambles. There were dozens of little folding snack- tables, all covered with twisted tubes of paint,
most of them crusted dry like shriveled snakes, but some of them alive and oozing ribbons of color.
Tubes, brushes, cans, rags, and parts of frames and canvas were strewn everywhere.
The place was thick with the odor compounded of paint, linseed oil, and turpentine—and after a few moments the subtle aroma of stale beer.
Three overstuffed chairs and a mangy green couch were piled high with discarded clothing,
and on the floor lay shoes, stockings and underthings,
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