‘No.’

His hand has found her and she nods.

Hurry. She pulls at his belt and gets it undone.

She wears only a short skirt and it is up near her waist now and he is on top of her, her panties moved to one side.

She arches once into him. There is a moment of resistance, but she pushes violently then – once – with a small cry, and he is in her and she sets him, and the world explodes in sensation.

Opening his eyes, he looked down, surprised and absurdly pleased with his erection.

Well, what do you know? he thought. Ain’t dead yet.

But the thought, as they all seemed, to, fled. As did the tumescence. His headache returned-the sharp, blinding pain. Frowning, he brought his hands to his temples and pressed with all his might.

There. Better. But, Lord, he could certainly do without that.

He looked around. The room was furnished in Salvation Army. Sal’s lounger had bad springs and canted slightly to one side, but it was comfortable enough. Over the sagging green couch hung a piece of plywood upon which, sixteen years ago, Sal had watercolored his old fishing boat, the Signing Bonus. The grain of the wood showed through the faded paint, but in the right light – now, for instance -he could make out what he’d done.

There was a coffee table in front of the couch and a couple of pine end-tables, scarred with cigarette burns and water stains, on either side of it. The wall-to-wall carpeting was worn to its threads.

But Sal didn’t need much, and he had more than most of the other people who lived in this building. A corner that got some sun. The place was small, okay, but had three legitimate rooms, this one and the kitchen and bedroom, plus its own bathroom. What the hell more did anybody need?

There was still most of a bottle of Old Crow next to a half-filled tumbler on the low table and Sal leaned forward, picked up the glass, and smelled to see what was in it. He didn’t remember pouring any of the booze, but that’s what it was, all right. He drank it off, a mouthful.