She went to the mirror, and slowly, piece by piece, began to pull off her clothes in a private strip tease.
I took another drink. But I couldn't let her know I had been watching her.
I went through my own apartment without turning on the lights.
At first I thought of inviting her over to my place,
but everything was too neat and orderly—too many straight lines to erase—and I knew it wouldn't work here.
So I went out into the hallway. I knocked at her door, softly at first and then louder.
"Door's open!" she shouted. She was in her underwear, lying on the floor, arms outstretched and legs up against the couch.
She tilted her head back and looked at me upside down. "Charlie, darling! Why are you standing on your head?"
"Never mind," I said, pulling the bottle out of the paper bag.
"The lines and boxes are too straight, and I thought you'd join me in erasing some of them."
"Best stuff in the world for that," she said. "If you concentrate on the warm spot that starts in the pit of your stomach, all the lines begin to melt."
"That's what's happening." "Wonderful!" She jumped to her feet.
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