Bloody River Blues

there; her apartment was filled with gingham pillows, needlepoints of children holding hands, plaques of geese dressed in colonial garb, wooden hearts and stuffed animals and silk flowers.
    Pellam hated it all. He had hoped the bedroom might be less cute, but of course, it was just the same. Worse, in fact, because Nina’s hobby was photography. No, not even. Snapshooting. The bedroom contained her collection of photos—fifty, sixty, a hundred of them, all in precious little Lucite and pewter and china frames, lining the radiator cover and windowsilland bedside table. Pellam was afraid to turn around abruptly. They made love under the eyes of Nina’s extended family, and during one particularly energetic moment, a round frame fell to the floor, bounced several times, and rolled for a long time in an exorbitantly distracting way.
    Oh, yes, a seduction.
    But an odd one.
    She had greeted him at the door wearing a white T-shirt and short, tight, dark gray skirt sans stockings. Barefoot. She reminded him of Lynn Redgrave in Georgy Girl . They had ordered out Hunan beef and cold noodles in sesame paste and eaten while they watched a bad TV show. Nina had loved it. A murder mystery. Pellam watched her lips moving as she whispered to herself, reciting the clues and trying to figure out who the killer was. He sat closer and put his arm around her. She rubbed her head against his as she announced that the victim’s brother-in-law had done it.
    She had been wrong. Then, instantly, she was tired of mass media. Just as the Midnight Movie came on, Nina turned off the TV, hiked her skirt up, and sat on his lap. He got an unabashed view of sensible white panties and she began kissing him. Her arms lashed around his shoulders and in a frenzy she pressed her mouth to his, shoving her tongue into him, rocking her hips desperately.
    He tasted Chinese food as much as he tasted Nina and because he was so startled by the assault it took a minute or two to pick up the pace.
    “The thing is,” she whispered. “I have something to say.”
    He responded by taking off her T-shirt. Her bra was shimmery and silver and very transparent and it halfheartedly supported large breasts that she kept playing against his chest.
    “What?” he whispered.
    She kissed him. “It’s important.” Her breasts battered him again, and he bent toward one. “Listen to me,” she whispered insistently. But it was a breathless insistence, and he did not. Instead he kissed her for a full minute.
    “ No, I mean it.” She slapped the back of his hand as it probed.
    Pellam lifted his head, startled. They lay half-reclining, half-naked, pressed against each other. He gave her his attention but she did not speak immediately. He reflected that there is nothing more ridiculous than two people in the posture of lovemaking when they are not making love.
    “I don’t want you to stay over,” she said.
    Pellam was looking for hooks and eyelets.
    This’s what you want to tell me? Just explain it to me as you go along.
    “I’m ovulating,” she said as if it were a trade secret.
    “I’ll be careful.”
    She blinked and pressed her mouth to his for a long moment. When they could both breathe again she said, “Well, of course you have to use a condom. But what I’m saying is don’t make too much out of this. I’m not really in control. It’s just hormones.”
    “I don’t care what it is.” He meant this sincerely. His hand danced along sparkles of the mesh bra.
    She leaned away and pressed a finger to his lips. “You have to promise me you won’t stay tonight.”
    He whispered, “You’re beautiful.”
    “Shhhh.” She frowned. “Just promise.”
    What was the question? “Okay, sure. But you’re still beautiful.”
    “No, I’m not.”
    “Can I stay for a few minutes, at least?”
    She kissed him again. “Just not all night.” She rubbed against him. She smiled girlishly and he believed whatever had so enigmatically interrupted the moment was past.
    Now, an hour later, lying in the huge bed (huge to him; he was used to Winnebago bunks), smelling the animal scent of her scalp, Pellam felt better. There were times when there ought to be nothing but this, being as close as you can to another human being, overlapping skin, mixed sweat, lying in silence and scents.
    He found himself aroused again. His hand slid down her belly and touched the curled pale hair that reminded him of the fine hairs at her temple.
    She swatted his hand again—this time