You've got to be kidding, she said as she continued to lower her feet and he continued to lower himself. And with that he got self-conscious, and gave her calves a quick affectionate squeeze, as if he'd been in control the whole time and was just playing around. Jauntily he got up and fairly skipped to the bar on the other side of the room, while wishing fervently that he could be back on the floor, groveling beneath her almost perfect beauty. It was *almost* perfect because of her nose. Her nose turned up too much, that’s really what it came down to. Here was her face, complexion creamy smooth, eyes large but not doe-like, mouth always the right blend of tender and scornful. Her lips were full and just pink enough. There was nothing outlandish about her face. It was kind, firm, full of health and light—but then your eye got caught halfway down, stumbling over that slightly too-short, oddly up-turned nose. At first that had been enough to neutralize her power. Back in high school he had remained immune, because the nose didn’t go with the face. But every time he saw her smile quietly at the boys in the cafeteria, the stupid rowdy boys, every time she giggled behind her hand without losing her composure, every time she demonstrated her *class,* the out-of-order nose began to reprogram his brain. Her hair was sleek, almost black, and many times he had imagined it encircling him, constricting, beginning to hurt, and he had gasped secretly to himself and strained his hips against his hard wooden chair, hoping no one could tell. But before that, before he had let himself get to that point, that exquisite nadir, it had been the nose that had stopped him. Here we are in a dark basement, she said, in the middle of nowhere, half-starved, completely broke, and utterly without a clue as to how we got this way and what we’re going to do, and all you can think about is for fuck’s sake FUCKING? We’re just supposed to sit here and fucking FUCK? You know what? You suck! And it was true, as she said it, and he knew it to be true, and that inflamed him afresh, so his hands fairly trembled as he poured the last of the bourbon into their two glasses, and brought hers to her while clutching tightly to his own. You know what, just come here, she sighed, and she was so world-weary that he felt a sense of duty mingling with his immense relief as he settled into the depression in the couch cushion next to her. Her hair smelled good, killingly good as usual, even now, even these days. It smelled like life and fresh air, and all the things they didn’t have in this room. She started stroking him, and he felt like a puppy under her touch. An ice cube clinked in his drink as it melted, and he remembered the glass in his hand. His mouth wanted a drink, but his arm, tingling with the pleasure of her fingertips, refused to deliver it for fear of disrupting the delicate balance. Each time her hand moved from his hair to the nape of his neck, fresh hypnotic resonance encircled his head, behind his ears. His jaw was loose, his breathing the only motion he was willing to risk.