_And what the Hell do you think you’re proving?_ he jeered at himself as he turned on the shower. All the answers he could think of sounded more like Phil Kutler’s brand of idiocy than like any of his own. He stepped impatiently out of the air blast and wrapped a towel around his still-damp waist. _Well_, he thought, _any way you look at it, it’s your own damn fault!_ He went out, took the glass Lee held out, and belted it fast. He filled it again, leaving the jug carefully on her table, not his own. Then he walked around the bed and sat down, leaning against the headboard. _Sip it_, he told himself. Lisa leaned back beside him. He watched her breasts move under the fullness of the thin nightgown: rising, as she settled into place, and again as she raised her glass to her lips; falling when she lowered it; shifting again when she turned to smile at him. Her hair was freshly brushed, he saw, and her lips newly, lightly, rouged. There was a trace of perfume, too, that had not been there before--and the other smell, the special one he couldn’t quite place, was lost under it. That was when he remembered something she’d said before. “What’s with the morning bus?” he asked. “I have to be at the studio at ten. They’re taping the Bartok. Didn’t I tell you Hal called...?” “Yeah.” She _had_ told him. So okay. One more thing he didn’t remember. He looked at her again. _What the Hell is that smell, anyway...?_ “Lee....” He could sense her tension, her shrinking from what he was going to say. “I could go down too ... while we’re there ... we could see about that license, you know?” “Oh, _Johnny_....” She paused, and because he did love her, he didn’t wait to make her say the rest. “Okay, doll. Listen....” _No good._ “Oh, Hell! Just don’t forget old Johnny did his best to make an honest woman out of you!” What the Hell should _he_ care? If that’s how she wanted it.... She’d do anything for him, he knew. Anything--except marry him. _Okay!_ “Better get some sleep,” he said stiffly. “Mmmmm?” She emptied her glass, squashed out her cigarette, and slid down on her pillow. Her hand hovered over the light switch while her eyes questioned his. “Hand me the jug first,” he said. _Jesus! What a dream!_ He filled his glass again, setting the bottle down on his own table. The Hell with it. This time he needed it. “Jesus!” he said. “What a dream!” He laughed but it didn’t sound right. “You know how words can get all mixed up? _Choke_ and _artichoke_. First somebody’s pushing my head in, then they’re pulling me apart. Just like an artichoke--Christ! You know, you take off one leaf at a time and dip it in butter and suck all the good part off and throw it away and pull off another one. Then you get down to the heart--just sitting there naked with all the leaves off, and you can’t even yell for help, who the Hell’d ever hear an _artichoke_...?” The goddam glass was empty. In the dark, the gurgling sound of pouring was too loud. _The Hell with it!_