“Not exactly. It’s an idea that’s been germinating. But I didn’t really see the whole picture until we started talking about Naked Came the Doorknob.”

“That cleared out your tubes, huh?”

Priss said, “Damn it, it might work. Before it was just talk, Rho, but it might work. I couldn’t see myself trying, you know, to make up a story. Invention and description, no, not my bag. I don’t think. But putting down what happened-”

“Yes. It wouldn’t be hard.”

“We would have to change our names and things if we were really going to get it published.”

“We can worry about that when it’s done. In the meantime we can write it absolutely straight. You can always change things around later on.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to start, honestly.”

“At the beginning,” Harry said. “I was born in a trunk,” he sang, not much like Judy, God rest her soul. Harry is the worst sort of impressionist, incapable of either doing them well or refraining from doing them entirely. (That sounds rather nasty, doesn’t it? I do love Harry very much, and trust he knows it.)

“We would start about the time all of this got started,” I said. “When I first moved in on you.”

“And stopping when?”

“When the manuscript’s long enough to publish.”

“No, seriously.”

“Seriously. When it’s long enough and when we run out of story.”

“And we keep taking turns with the chapters? You and you and me and over and over again?”

“Uh-huh. Not that we have to have cardiac arrest if the order gets reversed somewhere along the way.”

“You and you and me,” I said, “and over and over again.”

Priss said, “Do we have to type it?”

“Longhand takes forever,” I said. “And nobody can read it. You type well enough, don’t you?”

“I was thinking about a tape recorder. Did you ever read a book called Talk? A girl wrote it, Linda, her last name was either Rosenkrantz or Guildenstern and I’ll never know which. Anyway, she was with some people out at Fire Island-”