He watched her with narrowed eyes.

Laura was not in the mood. A sense of ritual settled over both of them, a kind of unspoken bargaining. The object was to make your mood set the tone of the evening. Souring it was a foul.

There were multiple levels of play. Both sides won big if you both reached the same mood quickly, through sheer infectious charisma. You won second-class if you got your own way without feeling guilty about it. Pyrrhic victory was when you got your own way but felt rotten. Then there were the various levels of giving in: Gracious, Resigned, and

Martyr to the Cause. .

Fouls were easiest, and then you both lost. The longer the ritual lasted, the more chances there were to screw up. It was a hard game to play, even with eight years' practice.

Laura wondered if she should tell him about the Church of

Ishtar. Thinking about the interview revived her sense of sexual repulsion, like the soiled feeling she got from seeing pornography. She decided not to mention it tonight. He was sure to take it all wrong if he thought his overtures made her feel like a hooker.

She buried the idea and cast about for another one. The first twinge of guilt nibbled her resolve. Maybe she should give in. She looked down at her feet. "My leg hurts," she said.

"Poor babe." He leaned over and had a closer look. His eyes widened. "Jesus." Suddenly she had become an invalid.

The mood shifted all at once, and the game was over. He kissed his fingertip and tapped it lightly on the bruise.

"Feels better, she said, smiling. He leaned back in bed and got. under the sheet, looking resigned and peaceable. That was easy. Victory class one for the Poor Little Lame Girl.

Now it was overkill, but she decided to mention her mother anyway. "I'll be fine when things get back to normal. Mother leaves tomorrow."