EVE-

Then his convulsions shook him. The bed was a nervous old woman, creaking and old: the snake at Eve's side grew wings and flew away. Hank clawed at her now, whimpered oh, oh? It was like dying, so strange-

But Eve lay remembering. A name. Her name. A man. Her man. A night. A cry. Fingers on her flesh. Frenzy. Orgasm. Eve, Eve.

It was like dying-

Go to sleep, Hank.

He went to sleep, eventually Eve slept; but not before thinking, not before imagining, and drawing certain conclusions. Sleep. It is supposed to heal all wounds, but Eve's dreams screamed at her like monkey, injuring-

MR. GORDON

Time polished the hours on the hasty sleeve of care, night sped, passed beaming to

The next day. Hank Gordon woke up feeling dull, sour somehow, strained. His eyes burnt; his ears listened to his shrill nerves ringing, his belly fell empty in on itself, his vitals hung wrinkled, dried, without vitality-

My whole body aches, he complained. How many orgasms did I have? Three? No, fourthat Beck kid, I came twice then; then with Eve; and last night when she went to sleep, again in the bathroom. That makes five. Five orgasms is too much for a clean living man past puberty.

Well, another day another dollar. Ha?

But it was too early, Eve only rolled her eyes then narrowed them in a sort of feminine humor. Hank withdrew into silence, took stock of his thoughts; and quietly, determinedly became Mr. Gordon for the day. Mr. Gordon, public school instructor, Athletic Department.

Cool again. School again. Will not play the fool again-

I'm gonn'a be

Fancy free,

Got a lot a

World to see.

What's that?

Nothing, singing-

Better go?

What again?

You'll be late, Hank.

Hank returned his wife's pallid morning smile, drank the dregs of his coffee, shrank into a large white sweater; then walked the veritable plank to school. I wonder if that Beck boy talked any? It was nasty last time, almost cost me my job. Maybe I shouldn't—well, another day, wait until things happen; imagination is for fairies. Fairies? What made me think that? Nothing, nothing. The word itself, cheated long since of its original due, in turn cheated Mr. Gordon on that very value which he keenly sought to buy off his conscience with: the pitiable bribe a man offers himself when confronted by unpitying truth; or truth beginning to untie all the knotted tangles of past deception, beginning to beckon and say look. What's a fairy? A think a kid believes in-

That Beck kid's a fairy, I bet.

This was the bribe, his bribe to himself to speak the lie and believe the lie.