The Brass Bed

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“Maybe,” she said, “we should call it quits.”

“Sure,” I answered over the telephone. “It would just make things a hell of a lot worse.” But I knew she didn’t mean it. “What do you want anyway?” I asked her.

So she told me. “YOU.”

I hadn’t seen her in six weeks, and the six weeks had been hell, especially when I knew she was right around the corner, as close to me as the telephone beside the bed where I was lying. I wanted her with me, wanted her badly, but there was a problem. It may seem to some people that a man and a woman’s seeing each other should not be such a hell of a problem, but it was — because she was married.

And right now — right now she was probably in some other guy’s arms.

I waited for the telephone to ring.

“It’s really very simple. I want you to come over and have a drink with me.”

“Having a drink with you is not a simple matter. It leads to excesses.”

Then she said it: “Are you afraid to see me?”

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