He sat on the bed and pulled her against him with both hands. “Oh, baby,” he said, and lowered his head to her breast. His hands moved up her back to her shoulders, pulled down the straps of her gown. “Oh, Lisa, Lisa,” he murmured against her skin. His lips moved down and encountered the crumpled gown again. “What’s _that_ doing there?” His head came up again, with the good smile, and he was still smiling as his lips met hers, while his hands pulled the gown down and off her hips. When he was asleep again, she knew it really was going to be all right this time. He lay on his side, a faint smile on his face still, his breathing even, untroubled, one hand cupping her breast. He looked _so young_.... Now, the lines smoothed from his face, he could almost have been the same man she had first met five years, and a world, ago. She lay quiet under his hand. _Oh, Johnny! If you could just._... But she stopped the thought. _No pushing_, she reminded herself. _No pulling. He’ll come through his own way._ But this time she didn’t believe it. It was taking too long. And the truth _was_, it didn’t get better. It only got worse. _Would it help if I left?_ That was the hardest part, to know if she herself did more good or more harm.... She tried to lie still and the effort defeated itself. One by one, the muscles in her leg, her arm, her back and neck, stiffened to unsustainable tensions. She moved warily and he mumbled, his fingers tightening. Then he came up a little out of sleep, muttered “Sorry,” and rolled over, freeing her to move. But now she was afraid that if she moved at all, the tears would spill out, so she lay still again. Not till his breathing was quiet once more did she start edging over, an inch at a time, to her side of the bed. Then, holding herself balanced, as one might handle a bowl of hot soup, she shifted her weight till her feet touched the floor and her body was erect. She crossed the room, one silent padding footstep at a time, nudged the door noiselessly closed behind her, went through the shadowed living room to the kitchen, and closed another door. _Coffee_, she thought. She put the percolator on, remembering he’d offered her coffee to start with. But she’d thought that if she drank with him, he wouldn’t drink more than she did. Not much more, anyhow.... _Well, it worked_, she thought, and added: _this time_. The pot bubbled on the stove; Lisa sat on a stool and cried. No one heard either sound. After a while she got up and rinsed her face at the sink. She poured her coffee, took it into the living room, and sat restlessly. Got up and went to the bedroom, tiptoed in and got the book from her table.