We spent the afternoon in bed watching movies. The Yakuza with Robert Mitchum, Sunset Boulevard with Gloria Swanson—her eyes as feverish as a startled horse’s. Buried in blankets were plates dusted with crumbs and hardened squares of cheese.
Rita teased the blinds open.
“It’s dark,” she said.
I circled my arms around her.
“Time for another?” I asked. “Casablanca?”
She said, “OK. But it’s still two hundred an hour.”
I said, “Casablanca‘s short.”
Rita sat down on the bed. She slanted an imaginary fedora to a rakish angle.
She said, “Here’s looking at you, kid.”
Her Bogie wasn’t bad.