Invisible man

            I was annoyed enough to slap her. She lay aggressively receptive, flushed, her navel no goblet but a pit in an earth-quaking land, flexing taut and expansive. Then she said, "Come on, come on!" and I said, "Sure, sure," looking around wildly and starting to pour the drink upon her and was stopped, my emotions locked, as I saw her lipstick lying on the table and grabbed it, saying, "Yes, yes," as I bent to write furiously across her belly in drunken inspiration:

SYBIL, YOU WERE RAPED

BY

SANTA CLAUS

SURPRISE

and paused there, trembling above her, my knees on the bed as she waited with unsteady expectancy. It was a purplish metallic shade of lipstick and as she panted with anticipation the letters stretched and quivered, up hill and down dale, and she was lit up like a luminescent sign.

            "Hurry, boo'ful, hurry," she said.

            I looked at her, thinking, Just wait until George sees that -- if George ever gets around to seeing that. He'll read a lecture on an aspect of the woman question he's never thought about. She lay anonymous beneath my eyes until I saw her face, shaped by her emotion which I could not fulfill, and I thought, Poor Sybil, she picked a boy for a man's job and nothing was as it was supposed to be. Even the black bruiser fell down on the job. She'd lost control of her liquor now and suddenly I bent and kissed her upon the lips.

            "Shhh, be quiet," I said, "that's no way to act when you're being --" and she raised her lips for more and I kissed her again and calmed her and she dozed off and I decided again to end the farce. Such games were for Rinehart, not me. I stumbled out and got a damp towel and began rubbing out the evidence of my crime. It was as tenacious as sin and it took some time. Water wouldn't do it, whiskey would have smelled and finally I had to find benzine. Fortunately she didn't arouse until I was almost finished.

            "D'you do it, boo'ful?" she said.

            "Yes, of course," I said. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

            "Yes, but I don't seem t'remember . . ."

            I looked at her and wanted to laugh. She was trying to see me but her eyes wouldn't focus am aer head kept swinging to one side, yet she was making a real effort, and suddenly I felt lighthearted.

            "By the way," I said, trying to do something with her hair, "what's your name, lady?"

            "It's Sybil," she said indignantly, almost tearfully. "Boo'ful, you know I'm Sybil."

            "Not when I grabbed you, I didn't."

            Her eyes widened and a smile wobbled across her face.

            "That's right, you couldn't, could you? You never saw me before." She was delighted, I could almost see the idea take form in her mind.

            "That's right," I said. "I leaped straight out of the wall. I overpowered you in the empty lobby -- remember? I smothered your terrified screams."

            " 'N' did I put up a good fight?"

            "Like a lioness defending her young . . ."

            "But you were such a strong big brute you made me give in. I didn't want to, did I now, boo'ful? You forced me 'gainst m' will."

            "Sure," I said, picking up some silken piece of clothing. "You brought out the beast in me. I overpowered you. But what could I do?"

            She studied that a while and for a second her face worked again as though she would cry. But it was another smile that bloomed there.

            "And wasn't I a good nymphomaniac?" she said, watching me closely. "Really and truly?"

            "You have no idea," I said. "George had better keep an eye on you."

            She twisted herself from side to side with irritation. "Oh, nuts! That ole Georgie porgie wouldn't know a nymphomaniac if she got right into bed with him!"

            "You're wonderful," I said. "Tell me about George. Tell me about that great master mind of social change."

            She steadied her gaze, frowning. "Who, Georgie?" she said, looking at me out of one bleary eye. "Georgie's blind 'sa mole in a hole 'n doesn't know a thing about it. 'D you ever hear of such a thing, fifteen years! Say, what're you laughing at, boo'ful?"

            "Me," I said, beginning to roar, "just me . . ."

            "I've never seen anyone laugh like you, boo'ful. It's wonderful!"

            I was slipping her dress over her head now and her voice came muffled through the shantung cloth. Then I had it down around her hips and her flushed face wavered through the collar, her hair down in disorder again.

            "Boo'ful," she said, blowing the word, "will you do it again sometimes?"

            I stepped away and looked at her. "What?"

            "Please, pretty boo'ful, please," she said with a wobbly smile.

            I began to laugh, "Sure," I said, "sure . . ."

            "When, boo'ful, when?"

            "Any time," I said. "How about every Thursday at nine?"

            "Oooooh, boo'ful," she said, giving me an old-fashioned hug. "I've never seen anyone like you."

            "Are you sure?" I said.

            "Really, I haven't, boo'ful . . . Honor bright . . . believe me?"

            "Sure, it's good to be seen, but we've got to go now," I said seeing her about to sag to the bed.

            She pouted. "I need a lil nightcap, boo'ful," she said.

            "You've had enough," I said.

            "Ah, boo'ful, jus' one . . ."

            "Okay, just one."