And empty, too. Except for the face of that woman—a nice face, with large hazel eyes and full red lips: Which moved and pleaded with me, “My baby, where is my baby?” It was a long way back to Art’s apartment. More than sixty blocks. I ran it. I jogged it. And when I got there, I sank into Art’s black leather couch and I watched a cable channel that was showing something filthy. I immersed myself in it. Completely. As I never before had. I got a hard-on; I found myself smiling. It was a retreat, a haven—it was life, for God’s sake! Tacky as it was, it was life. And I did not know how long Phyllis had been sitting on the couch with me. When I noticed her, at last, I screeched out of fear and surprise, and she turned her face toward me. She was grinning. She said, her voice lower than I remembered, and harsher, “I told you that you wouldn’t like it out there, Abner.” Her face was flatter somehow, her skin tighter; and her smell had changed, too.
