By the way, I’m really good in DB.’ Fifty minutes later I walked up the stairs of a sixty-year-old building that showed every one of those years and knocked on the door of 309. She opened the door, she looked like shit. She was wearing a baggy sweatshirt and pants with worn flip-flops for shoes. Her hair was a dirty blond that hadn’t been washed in a day or so. But it was her sunken eyes—an equal mixture of blue and red—that told me she hadn’t slept in a while. She might be pretty. She was about five-foot-eight or so, but with the baggy clothes it was hard to say anything else about her body. ‘You look like you have a deadline, Charlie.’ ‘How would you know?’ ‘I’ve been there…many times.’ She mumbled something and then raised her voice, ‘Come in and let’s talk.’ She led me into a very large but old studio apartment. Everything was in one room including the bed. I guessed that the only other door in the room probably led to the bathroom. Against one wall was the work area—two tower. The food was only to keep me from getting sick as a dog after I’d over-indulged. You’d think I’d have learned by now that the food always comes back up first.It was quiet. Just the wind rustling in the trees onshore and the lapping of waves against the hull. This was what I had been looking for all week. Peace, quiet, and a chance to commiserate. But the silence was broken by the greetings of a female voice.“Hello,” she called, “can I come over?”Somehow, the word ‘No' evaporated from my vocabulary. There was something soft and appealing in that voice. Despite a feeling that I knew so well, the one that tells me to shut the fuck up and run or hide, I invited her over anyway. You’d think that after twenty years of involuntary bachelorhood, I’d have learned.You’d be wrong.She rowed over in a punt-nosed skiff and tied off at the stern. I helped her climb aboard, noting that she was probably just a couple of years younger than myself, and those years had been kind to her. Maybe it was the.
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