A gray one-isn't that cute.'
Adorable.'
'It is, Alex. You're maturing.'
'What's that, the euphemism of the day?'
'The trvth, Doctor. Time's a sexist pig-women decay; men acquire a vintage. Even guys who weren't all that cute when they were young have a second shot at studliness if they don't let themselves go completely to seed. The ones like you, who were adorable to begin with, can really clean up.'
I started panting.
'I'm serious, Alex. You'll probably get all craggy and wiselook like you really understand the mysteries of life.'
'Talk about false advertising.'
She inspected each of my temples, turning my head gently with strong fingers and burrowing through the hair.
'This is the ideal place to start silvering,' she said in a teacher's voice. 'Maximum class-and-wisdom quotient. Hmm, nope, I don't see anything yet, just this one little guy, down here.' Touching a nail to
the chest hair, she brushed my nipple again. 'Too bad you're still a callow youth.'
'Hey, babe, let's party.'
She put her head back down and reached lower, under the blanket.
'Well,' she said, 'there's something to be said for callow too.'
We moved to the living room and listened to some tapes she'd brought.
The new Warren Zevon casting cold light upon the dark side of life a novel in miniature. A Texas genius named Eric Johnson who produced musical textures from the guitar that made me want to burn my instruments. A young woman named Lucinda Williams with a beautiful, bruised voice and lyrics straight from the heart.
Robin sat on my lap, curled small, her head on my chest, breathing shallowly.
When the music was over she said, 'Is everything okay?'
'Sure. Why?'
'You seem a little distracted.'
'Don't mean to be,' I said, wondering how she could tell.
She sat up and undid her braid. Her curls had matted and she began separating the strands. When she'd fluffed them and restored the natural perm, she said, Anything you want to talk about?'
'It really isn't anything,' I said. 'Just work-a tough case. I'm probably letting it get to me too much.'
I expected her to let that go, but she said, 'Confidential, right?'
with just a trace of regret.
'Limited confidentiality,' I said. 'I'm a consultant and this one may spill over into the criminal justice system.'
'Oh. That kind of case.'
She touched my face. Waited.
I told her the story of Cassie Jones, leaving out names and identifying marks.
When I finished, she said, 'Isn't there anything that can be done?'
