In the three years she had occupied her third floor one-bedroom apartment here on Geary Street, she had grown comfortable and had made friends with some of the occupants who shared the ten-story eyesore. After Sandor's death the widower from upstairs whose television set she had tolerated at three o'clock in the morning for three yeas without protest, ingratiated himself by inviting her up for coffee and to watch the afternoon soap operas. And Lola from across the hall had invited her to Saturday afternoon matinees. So it wasn't as if nobody appreciated her loss. Roger, too, had invited her to his apartment on several occasions, a truth which brought a blush to her cheeks and she kneed over to the far corner of the kitchen, pushing her sloshing mop bucket along ahead of her.

Roger… she mused, watching the water drip from the natural bristle scrub brush before descending it to the floor. Roger had been more than kind. Sandor wouldn't approve of her cooking and cleaning for another man, she thought guiltily; but what was she to do? Spend the rest of her life holed-up crocheting and mending house-dresses? Ah, it was silly! There wasn't anything between she and Roger. Margaret levered herself to her knees and elbows and dug the brush into the yellowed linoleum, watching cakes of dirt and wax lift like magic. But her mind wasn't on the floor, it was on Roger. Roger would be home soon, and for some unexplainable reason, she didn't want him to see her on elbows and knees like a common scrub lady. She was only thirty-eight; she had time to live… and love.

Oh, sure, he'd kissed her one time and hugged her, lifting her off the floor with his strong Arabian arms. But that was just kidding around, nothing serious. Roger liked women, Margaret knew with a small pang of jealousy. She'd seen several women, all dressed for the night club and heavily made-up, leaving his apartment at strange hours. Margaret sat up on her haunches, yanking down her dress that had hiked up to her thighs. Yes, she reasoned generously, Roger should have many women, he surely had the looks of a lady's man with his black thick hair and rich tanned skin. For a man of forty-five, he still carried himself in a dignified manner, straight and tall and strong. Margaret liked that. Sandor had been a strong man.