Paul was due in on Saturday night; the two of us planned to go down to the train station to meet him. I didn't want to tell her, but for the first time since I had known him, I wasn't looking forward to seeing Paul all that much. Call it greed or possessiveness or whatever, I had grown used to squiring India around town on my arm, and it was going to be damned hard and sad to have to give it up.

"Hi ya, kids!"

We watched him zoom down the platform toward us, arms full of bags and packages, a great beaming smile on his face. He hugged India and then me. He had a thousand stories to tell about "the Commies" and insisted we go to a cafй so he could have a real cup of coffee for the first time in two weeks. He let me carry one of his suitcases, which seemed to be light as air. I didn't know if it was empty or because adrenaline was pumping through my body a mile a minute. I didn't know how I felt anymore. India walked between us, holding us each by the arm. She looked completely happy.

"That crumb."

"India, take it easy."

"No! That dirty crumb. How do you like that? He actually asked."

"What exactly did he say?"

"He asked me if we'd slept together."

Big Ben tolled in the middle of my stomach. Half because of indignation, half because with one question Paul had put his finger right on the button. Had I wanted to sleep with India? Yes. Did I still want to sleep with India, my one best friend who was married to my other best friend? Yes.

"And you said?"

"What do you think I said? No! He's never done that before." She was fuming. A few more degrees and smoke would have come out of her ears.

"India?"

"What?"

"Never mind."

"What? Say it. I hate that. Tell me now."

"It's nothing."

"Joe, if you don't tell me, I'll kill you!"

"I wanted to."

"Wanted to what?"

"Go to bed with you."

"Uh oh."

"I told you, you should forget it."

"I'm not uh-ohing because of that." She clapped her hands together and held them tight against her stomach. "The night we went to the cafйs together I wanted you so much I thought I was going to die."

"Uh oh."

"You said it, brother. Now what?"

We talked and talked and talked and talked, until we were exhausted. She suggested we go out and do some shopping. I followed her around the market, my knees shaking the whole time. Once in a while, weighing a grapefruit or choosing eggs, she threw me a look that sent me reeling. This was bad. The whole thing was bad. Black. Wrong. What could you do?

She picked up a triangle of Brie cheese. "Are you thinking?"

"Too much. My head's going to blow a fuse."

"Mine too. You like Brie?"

"Huh?"

Paul called that night around seven and asked if I wanted to go to a horror film with them. It was exactly what I didn't want to do, and I begged off. When I hung up, I wondered if my refusal would make him suspicious. He knew India and I got together once in a while during the day. We would rendezvous when she was through painting or after one of her German classes at the university. What would happen now? He was so kind and generous; I'd never thought of Pad as a jealous or suspicious man. Was this a glimpse of that side of him?

"Joe?"

"India? What time is it, for Christ's sake?" I tried to make out the numbers on the clock next to the bed, but my eyes were too fogged over from sleep.

"It's after three. Were you asleep?"

"Uh, yes. Where are you?"

"Out walking around. Paul and I had a fight."

"Uh oh. Why are you walking around?" I sat up in bed. The blanket slipped down my chest, and I felt the cold of the room.

"Because I don't want to be home. You wanna have a cup of coffee or something?"

"Well . . . uh . . . okay. Um, or would you like to come over here? Is that okay?"

"Sure. I'm right at the corner of your street. You know that phone booth?"

I smiled and shook my head. "Should I turn the light on and off three times to signal when the coast is clear?"

I heard the zazzy sound of a Brooklyn raspberry come through the phone before she hung up on me.

"Where'd you get that robe? You look like Margaret Rutherford."

"India, it's three o'clock in the morning. Shouldn't you call Paul?"

"Why? He's not around. He took off."

I was heading toward the kitchen, but that stopped me fast enough. "Took off where?"

"How should I know? He went one way, and I went the other."

"You mean he hasn't actually gone anywhere –"

"Joe, shut up. What are we going to do?"

"About this? About you and me? I don't know."

"You really want to go to bed with me?"

"Yes."

She sighed loudly and dramatically. I wanted to look at her, but I couldn't. All my courage had fled with her question.

"Well, Joey, me too, so I guess we got big problems, huh?"

"I guess."

The phone rang. I looked at her and pointed to it. She shook her head. "I ain't answering that, the creep. If it's him, tell him I'm not here. No, no! Tell him I'm in bed with you and can't be disturbed. Ha! That's it! Give it to him!"

"Hello?"

"Joe? Is India there?" His voice said he knew she was but was asking just to be polite.

I wasn't taking any chances with my answer. "Yes, Paul. She just got here. One second."

This time I held the receiver out to her, and after a dirty look, she snatched it out of my hand. "What, stinko? Huh? Yes, you're damned right! What? Yes. All right . . . What? . . . I said all right, Paul. Okay." She hung up. "Ratface."

"Well?"

"Well, he said he was sorry and wants to apologize. I don't know if I should let him." She said it while she buttoned up her coat. She stopped when her hands got to the last one, and then she looked me long and hard in the eyes. "Joe, I'm going home and listen to my husband apologize. He said he even wants to apologize to you. Christ! This thing's going to happen and we both know it and I'm going home to listen to him apologize to me for being suspicious. Is it bad, Joe? Are we really this bad?"

We looked at each other, and it was a long time before I realized my teeth were actually chattering.

"You're scared, huh, Joe?"

"Yes."

"Me too. Me too. Good night."

Two weeks later I turned her wet face to me and kissed her. It was exactly, exactly the way I'd envisioned India Tate kissing: gently, simply, but with a delicious intensity.

She took my hand and led me into the bedroom. The big goose-down comforter was folded neatly across the foot of my double bed. It was coral pink; the bottom sheet was white and without wrinkles. The glass lamps on the side tables gave off a muted, intimate glow. She walked to the other side of the bed and began unbuttoning her shirt. In a minute I saw she was wearing no bra, which must have embarrassed her, because she turned away and finished with her back to me.

"Joe, can I turn out the light?"

In bed I discovered that her breasts were larger than I'd thought; her skin was tight and firm everywhere. In the dark it was a dancer's body, very warm against the fresh, icy sheets.

I don't know if sex is a reflection of a person's true spirit or personality, although I've heard it said often enough. India was very good – very fluid and active. She knew how to prolong both of our orgasms without making it feel as if she was manipulating or trying to remember some page out of The Joy of Sex. She said she wanted to feel me as deep inside her as possible, and when I was there, she rewarded me with words and shivers that made me want to plunge even deeper and rattle every object on her shelves.