Nightmare In Pink

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SHE WORKED in one of those Park Avenue buildings which tourists feel obligated to photograph. It’s a nice building to visit, but they wouldn’t want to live there.

She worked on the twentieth floor, for one of those self-important little companies which design packages for things. I arrived at five, as arranged, and sent my name in, and she came out into the little reception area, wearing a smock to prove that she did her stint at the old drawing board.

Nina Gibson. She was a bouffante little girl. I had seen a picture of her at age twelve. At twice that, she had changed. Mike had carried her picture in his wallet. Now she had a pile of blue-black curls, Mike’s blue blue eyes, small defiant face, skin like cream. She had one of those hearty little figures typical of a certain type of small girl. The hand-span waist, and the rich solid swell of goodies above and below.

“You’ll have to wait a little while,” she said. “I’m sorry”

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