A bachelor, a studio, those were the names for that kind of apartment. Separate entrance it would say in the ads, and that meant you could have sex, unobserved.

There was old sex in the room and loneliness, and expectation, of something without a shape or name. I remember that yearning, and was never the same as the hands that were on us there and then, in the small of the back, or out back, in the parking lot, or in the television room with the sound turned down and only the pictures flickering over lifting flesh. We yearned for the future How did we learn it, that talent for insatiability?

Can I be blamed for wanting a real body, to put my arms around? Without it I too am disembodied. I can listen to my own heartbeat against the bedsprings...but there’s something dead about it, something deserted.

If i thought this would never happen again I would die.
But this is wrong, nobody dies from lack of sex. It's lack of love we die from.

I wanna be regular again - to be in a house or apartment or something. Just to get out of a hotel because this isn't really my life anymore.

Yes, you’re sleeping in my apartment,” I said. “On my sofa. It was an exciting night, but not that exciting. I’d really hope you’d remember if it had been.