"Don't let the cat out," he said thickly, stepping back as she entered.

She closed the door behind her, listening for any sound beyond the living room and kitchen. "Anyone else here?"

The place smelled like a litter box. But at least the guy had a cat. A guy with a cat was harmless, right?

He frowned, as if he didn't get the question or its purpose. He shook his head.

"I like to ask," she explained, dropping her purse on the counter. "If there's more than one person, I don't stay. You know what I mean?"

"That you're a one-guy woman?"

"That's right. One at a time." More than one could get ugly. More than one could get dangerous.

"You're in luck," he said. "Because I'm a one-woman man."

He was making a joke.

"You're cute," she said suspiciously.

Most of her clients were gross. They were often fat and bald, and they sweated profusely with the kind of nervous perspiration that smelled so bad. They were usually businessmen with wives and kids. She rarely got cute ones. When she did, they always wanted her to do something she didn't want to do, and she usually ended up running.

"So what's wrong with you?" she asked. Should she get the hell out of there? "What kind of weird shit you into?"

"I'm antisocial."

She laughed. A real laugh. "That's why you called me?"

"I'm not going to go to a bar and pretend to be interested in a girl just so I can have sex. I have no interest in socializing. That's all. Too much work." He waved a hand. "Too much trouble. This way there is no pretense. Nobody gets hurt."

He was okay. Just wasted. Really wasted. Barely able to stand, wasted. "Did you see our price list?" she asked.

Some of her associates played fantasy games with the customers. Flora never pretended it was anything more than what it was. A business transaction. Payment for goods received.

"We take cash or credit. No checks. Pay is by the. hour. If we go as much as one minute over sixty, you pay for another full hour. Those are the rules."

"I might want you to stay all night."

"Night's almost over"

He glanced at a window, as if the news surprised him. "Until I have to leave for work, then."

She shrugged in signature prostitute lingo, then followed with the cliche, "As long as you're paying. And just so you'll know, that payment is for my visit. Sort of a consultation. The sex is free." All legal that way. Or kind of legal.

"Want something to drink?" he asked.

"How about a glass of water?"

With slow, deliberate movements, he filled a glass and handed it to her.

"I like your place," she told him.

Now it was his turn to laugh. "You're kidding, right?"

"It's creepy, and I like creepy things." She took a swallow of water and strolled around the room. "I'll bet a lot of people died in this building."

She put down the glass and pulled her white, gauzy top over her head, dropping it on the floor. "Bedroom this way?" she asked, heading down the short hall and peeking into the only other room in the apartment. It was dark, with a rectangle of light from the living room spilling on the floor. "You haven't lived here long, have you?"

"Three months."

"You need something on your walls." There was nothing but a bed with rumpled white sheets, and a dresser. "Posters or something."

He came up behind her. "What's this?" He touched a small, circular, raised area on her lower spine that was exposed by low-slung black pants.

"Amojo."

"Mojo?"

"It protects me from evil."

"Evil… is everywhere."

"That's why I need a mojo."

"A little scar… won't protect you."

"It might."

"You talk too much," he said.

"Oh, that's right." She turned in his arms. "You don't want any socialization."

She smiled at him. He smiled back.

He was so damn cute! He took her fucking breath away.

They stripped.

He had an athletic body.

Not a spare ounce of flesh.

Swimmer? Runner?

All sinewy muscles just below a smooth layer of skin.

She produced a condom.

He wasn't too drunk to put it on.

He cupped her waist with his hands. He tasted her breasts.

She dug her fingers into his damp arms, and lifted herself closer.

He smelled like beer and soap.

He was intense. Alive. Electric.

"Lie back on the bed," he said softly, gently, as if he cared about her.

She tumbled backward, and suddenly imagined that she wasn't a whore, and that they'd met somewhere else. At the office. No, jogging through Forsyth Park. They saw each other every day. They always smiled and said hello. One day he asked if she'd care to join him for sweet tea in a little nearby cafe\ A week later, dinner.

"I'll bet somebody died in this room," she whispered against his jaw. "Maybe in this very bed."

"You're weird."

"Thank you."

"I'm dying right now."

They fell in love.

After the jogging and the caf6 and the dinner, they fell in love.

She was a nurse.

No, an art student at SCAD. He was-

He slipped inside her.

She had a moment to marvel at the sensation. Because she was a young art student. Not a virgin, but not very knowledgeable when it came to men and sex.

"You're shaking," she said. His body was trembling.

"I haven't had sex in a long time."

"How long?"

"I don't know."

"A couple of weeks?" she guessed.

"Years. It's been years."

Years. "Oh, sweetie." His confession made her feel special, made her feel in some way… brand-new.

She wrapped her arms around him, sheltering him, lifting herself to meet his strokes. She was a young art student; he was her dark, mysterious lover.