Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

hold my interest.
    But then, at 12:07, her light came on, and Brian detected a slight stirring of her curtains. He stood up excitedly, lifting his binoculars to his eyes. The curtains opened.
    It was Lady Eleven, all right, but her appearance had changed radically. She was no longer wearing the floppy terry cloth robe. She was dressed in what appeared to be a gray wool suit. Her hair was bound up in a light little bun, and her features—even at that distance—seemed severe and judgmental.
    She raised her own binoculars and studied Brian for moment.
    He suddenly felt silly, wearing only his bathrobe. He wondered if she had planned it that way.
    She left her window for several minutes, returning with a large piece of poster paper. She laid it on a table by the window and scribbled something on it. Then she held it up to the window.
    It said: DROP HER.
    Brian felt the blood rising to his face. Anger, confusion and guilt warred within him. He stared out across the moonlit city at the sign that accused him, then skulked into the kitchen in search of a large paper bag.
    He found one, tore it open and scrawled on it with a Magic Marker.
    His reply was: SHE’S JUST A FRIEND.
    He held the paper up to the window for half a minute while she studied it with her binoculars. When he finally put it down. Lady Eleven was standing with her arms folded, shaking her head.
    Brian muttered “Goddammit” under his breath and retaliated by writing I SWEAR on the paper bag. He held it up again, shaking the paper for emphasis. Lady Eleven kept her stance for several more seconds, then bent over her poster paper again.
    This time she wrote: TAKE OFF YOUR CLOTHES.
    Enraged, Brian shook his head emphatically.
    Lady Eleven shook the poster.
    Brian shook his head.
    Lady Eleven scribbled on the poster again and held it up. To TAKE OFF YOUR CLOTHES she had added, IF YOU LOVE ME.
    For one angry moment, Brian considered closing the curtains and curling up in bed with his scratch ‘n sniff Hustler centerfold. He didn’t need this kind of bullshit. There were loads of girls who loved his ass without such degrading demands.
    Why this one, then? Why should he demean himself before this anonymous, neurotic, compulsive weirdo?
    He knew the answer, of course:
    Because she needed him. Because there was something more pathetically humbling about writing “If you love me” to a stranger than stripping naked before a stranger. Because she was desperate and no one else could save her.
    So he unknotted the cord of his bathrobe.
    Lady Eleven lifted her binoculars again as Brian let the bathrobe drop. She watched him—smiling?—until his hard-on was visible. Then she began to unbutton her suit.
    When they both were naked, the ritual began again, more feverish and committed than ever.
    From the purple haze of his passion, Brian heard someone knocking on his door.
    Then a voice: “Brian, it’s Mona. I just scored some you-know-what. What say we share a few lines?”
    Frozen like a satyr on a Pompeian frieze, he waited in silence until the intruder had gone.
    Then he turned back to his lover again.

Riddle at Dawn
    F OR THE THIRD TIME THAT WEEK, MARY ANN SLEPT AT Burke’s apartment. Something—a noise, a bad dream, or the last cry of the trout she’d cooked for dinner—woke her just before dawn. She propped her head on her elbow and willed Burke awake.
    He blinked at her. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”
    “It must be in the country somewhere.”
    “What?”
    “The Sacred Rock.”
    “For God’s sake! Get some sleep, will you?”
    “In five minutes. Just say it one more time.”
    Burke groaned. Then he recited the verse like a sixth-grader spitting out the Gettysburg Address under duress:
High upon the Sacred Rock
The Rose Incarnate shines,
Upon the Mountain of the Flood
At the Meeting of the Lines.
    “See?” said Mary Ann. “The terrain is hilly.”
    “Clever girl.”
    She dug her fingers into his side. “What’s the name of that mountain in the Bible?”
    “Calvary.”
    “No, silly. The one that Noah’s ark landed on. The Mountain of the Flood, get it?”
    “Ararat.”
    She chewed meditatively on her forefinger. “I wonder if anything is named that. Around here, I mean.”
    “You got me.”
    Mary Ann threw back the covers and scrambled out of bed.
    “What the hell are you doing?” asked Burke.
    “Checking the phone book.”
    “Come to bed, goddammit!”
    “It won’t take a second.” She found the directory on the