“Of course a cigarette,” she said suddenly. “What else would I smoke? A herring?”

“Hardly that,” I agreed.

“It is to lessen the sadness,” she said. “Shall I tell you something? I wanted to make love with you the first night, Bear-naard. But I knew it would make me sad.”

“I guess I must not be very good at it.”

“But how can you say that? You are a wonderful lover. That is why you break my heart.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Look at me, Bear-naard.”

“You’re crying.”

I reached to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye. A fresh one promptly took its place.

“It is no use to wipe them away,” she said. “There are always more.” She took another deep drag on her cigarette. When she smoked, she really smoked. “It is the way I am,” she explained. “Lovemaking saddens me. The better it is, the worse I feel.”

“That’s a hell of a thing,” I said. “I’m almost ashamed to admit it, but I feel terrific.”

“I have a good feeling, too.”

“Well, then-”

“But underneath it is this sadness. And so I smoke a cigarette. I don’t like to smoke cigarettes, but I do it to hold back the sadness.”

“Does it work?”

“No.” She handed me the cigarette. “Would you put it out? You can use that little dish for an ashtray. Thank you. And now would you stay with me for a little while? And hold me, Bear-naard.”

After a while she started to talk. The apartment was awful, she said, but it was all she could afford. New York was so expensive, especially for someone without a steady salary. And the location was good because she often got work in the area of the United Nations, translating or proofreading documents. She could take a bus right up First Avenue, or even walk if the weather was good and she had the time.

She knew there were things she could do to make the place nicer. She could paint the walls, she could replace the horrible rug, she could buy a TV set. Maybe she would get around to it someday. If she was still here. If she didn’t move…