Jack's apartment was as chaotic as he dimly remembered it having been. The tiny living room had two large bookcases which had room for about half of the perhaps one thousand or so books that were strewn around the room. The rest were stacked on the desk, the floor, on the sofa, and on an end table near the door. On top of the latter stack was a coffee cup, half full of what was once coffee, but was now furry dreck. One argyle sock was draped half in and half out of the cup. Jack quickly scooped up the cup and headed toward the kitchen sink with it. He began the noisome task of fishing out the sock. He'd been looking for it. Had he washed it before he put it in the cup? Didn't matter. He had to wash it again anyway. While Jack was doing this, she went over to the huge grandfather clock next to the window, and stood looking at it. Through the glass door could be seen yet more books. "What time is it?" she asked after awhile.

"12:30, I think," Jack replied, "I can't read my watch very well. Why do you ask?"

"Your clock says 3:40," she observed, "I don't think it's running. I've been watching it for awhile and the hands aren't moving at all. And it's not ticking. It could be really, really slow, but chances are it's not running."

"It doesn't run. It's an antique. Anyway, it's right twice per day." He wondered how long she would have watched it if he had been out of the room.

She considered this for a minute. Then she said, "Why don't you move the hands so that the time is 10:10. That way the clock will look like it's smiling. Now it looks like it's frowning. Looking at a big frowny clock could make you sad." Jack winced, not altogether inwardly.

Jack removed his dry cleaning from the armchair and draped it over a handy stack of books. She sat down and scanned the room slowly and carefully. Finally she asked, "I really like the way this room is decorated. Who did it for you?"

"You're kidding, right?" Jack said, a little disgustedly, "Christian Dior."

"I didn't know he did apartments too," she said excitedly, her eyes widening.

"No, no, no. My ex-wife's divorce lawyer. This stuff is what was left," Jack said, with exaggerated patience, as if explaining an obvious concept to a slow child.

"Christian Dior is a lawyer, too? He must be very talented. I thought he just designed clothes." She was really excited now. Jack shook his head and decided to give up trying to explain. He was too drunk. Let her try and find Dior in the yellow pages under 'Attorneys.' He'd like to be a fly on that wall.

Jack then sat down on the end of the sofa not covered with books and looked at her. "Well, here we are. Would you like a drink?"

"Sure," she said, "What have you got?"

"Scotch. Just scotch," Jack answered, "I'm a lawyer, I think it's in my contract I only get scotch."

There was a short pause. "Well, okay. If it's good enough for Christian Dior it's good enough for me." she said, "Do you have a straw?"

Jack rummaged around the kitchen finding two glasses with the fewest fingerprints and lip marks on them, which he rinsed out. He also located a straw. "Why?" he asked himself, "Why, why, why?"

He handed one of the glasses, with the straw in it, to her. She blew bubbles for about ten seconds. Jack just stared. She caught his stare and said, "I like to aerate my scotch. It makes it easier to drink it." She held the glass out for Jack to have a sip. He shook his head with alacrity. "Well, OK," she said, "but you don't know what you're missing."

Jack was sure he knew exactly what he was missing, but he had stopped caring about why she did anything.

After she finished her drink, she looked at Jack for a minute, as if she were considering facts not yet in evidence, as he put it to himself. She seemed to make up her mind. "Do you want to go to bed now?" She began to rummage around in her purse.

"Now that's an offer I can't refuse," Jack said.

She continued to rummage, then her purse got away from her. Some of its contents spilled out on the floor. She scrabbled around trying to pick everything up "Ah, there it is," she said happily, picking up what looked like a beat up coupon wallet, stuffed very full and held together with a large pink rubber band.

"There what is?"Jack asked.


"My 'Days of the Week' condom holder," she replied cheerfully.

"Your...what? Days of the week what?" Jack said in a strangled voice.

"Condom holder. Helps me keep things straight," she explained, "You know, like days of the week panties. That's how I keep track of what day it is."

Jack imagined for a minute her checking the day of the week in a market, or a bank, or at her day job, whatever that was, "Just a minute, boss, let me check my calendar here."

She continued, "That's how I know that today's Friday. Go ahead and pick one."

She handed the condom holder to Jack, who accepted it gingerly and held it between the thumb and forefinger of one hand so that he could inspect it. It did seem to have seven tabbed pockets, and the tabs were labeled with the days of the week in order. Jack looked down into the pockets. There seemed to be several condoms in each pocket. "Son of a bitch," he said, mostly to himself, "It really is a days of the week condom holder." He shook his head.

"There should be four in each pocket, although a couple might be short. I haven't stocked up in a few days. Anyway, there should be an orange one, a red one, a pink one, and a purple one in each pocket. And they all glow in the dark." She seemed very enthusiastic. Jack winced harder at that, then he picked out a purple one. He felt that purple would glow less noticeably that the other colors.

Well, no matter what happened, he was covered. So to speak. He went over to where she was sitting and helped her to her feet. He was nearly pulled off his feet by this process. She was a surprisingly inert mass in that chair. Jack led her to the bedroom. He knew his sheets had been changed a few days ago, but he hadn't made the bed since. It didn't matter. She would still probably be impressed by the decoration in there too. At least she was easy to please.

The rest of the night was a soggy haze for Jack. He recalled they lay down on the bed together. He also recalled a minimal amount of some sort of preliminary activity. He obviously had undressed, based on the fact he was naked when he awoke. He had a vague recollection of what she had looked like and felt like, so she must have been naked as well. He felt sure, however, that, if she ever were in a line-up, he'd be very hard pressed to pick her out. He also had a recollection that the sex had been somewhere between at best, an unstimulating and pointless exertion, and, at worst, only a little better than being asleep. The Bataan Death March of Sex. Jack seemed to remember that she did not move in any way, that she lay there like an exceptionally passive mollusk. She had been about as inspiring as the bowl of three day old oatmeal which was currently mouldering in his kitchen sink. Eventually he had bulled his way through it, because he had apparently fallen asleep immediately after.