"Much more convenient," he explained to Irene as he replaced the credit card in his wallet, then put the wallet inside the inner pocket of his plaid sport jacket. Irene sipped on the bourbon and water. "Good?" he asked, his brows knitting, "Strong."

"Good," he smiled, resuming his Scotch and soda. "My name's Jack. What's yours?"

"Irene," she replied, turning on a soft smile she did not feel. She wondered what he did. Was he intelligent? Probably not. It did not matter, not really. He was good-looking, with strong features and a lean body. His chin was like Cary Grant's, smoothly clefted. His hairline had not receded, and he was at the age when it would already have started. If the child did turn out to be a boy, she told herself, there was no reason he should be cursed with early baldness. His hands were bony, a blue network of vein inside the thin pink of the surface skin. She liked his eyes; in some lights they were blue, sometimes the movement of his head made them seem green. Finally she asked him which they were.

"Blue," he said and offered her a cigarette. She shook her head; she did not smoke, and people who did annoyed her, but she said nothing. He lit the end of the cigarette and inhaled. She studied his face. He was wearing light pants. They were tight. He had no hips to speak of. He would do, she told herself, and again the tongue slid through the lips to wet them.

She relaxed him and let him make his pitch. She knew that it was a prelude on his part to what he was really interested in, but some perversity forced her to be passive, almost resisting his exercise of charm. She was making him work for his fuck, she thought. He bought her another bourbon and water and had the bartender bring him another Scotch, straight this time.