Manshare by Maxine Paetro

Author:Maxine Paetro
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781590772799
Publisher: M. Evans & Company

15

THE ELECTRIC PING OF THE CLOCK ALARM SOUNDED. DAVID STEIN stabbed the shut-off button and allowed himself to the count of sixty to open his eyes. And then he did. He always loved this moment. His bed faced the East River. The windows were arches eleven feet high, five feet wide, divided into beveled rays at the top, and there were three of them. David’s black-lacquered bed frame was centered with and facing the middle window. The window on the right was a door opening out to the terrace. At this moment, 6:15 A.M., the sun was slashing in, flinging rainbow fragments through the beveled glass, scattering colored lights on the indigo-blue spread, the pale-blue sheets, and David’s furred arms which were now stretching overhead. He lowered his arms, one hand finding his morning hard-on, holding it for a moment before the pressure from his bladder exerted pressure on his brain. He walked to the black marble bathroom and relieved himself.

David showered quickly. Then, wearing the black terry-cloth robe Miranda had given him, he returned to the bed, found the remote control switch and summoned a television picture from the cool black instrument on the slick black-lacquer storage unit.

“Thank you, Bill,” Miranda Wu said into the camera. “At the Beirut Airport this morning, the U.S. Marines began pulling out ...” David felt a tightening in his groin. Looking at Miranda on television was enough to excite him. Her hair was rolled back at the sides and back in a nineteen-forties hair style that only Miranda could make stylish today. She was wearing a pale lilac suit with a white blouse and scalloped collar. She looked so demure. So pure.

Tonight Miranda would do the Seven O’Clock Report, have a light meal, take the limo to the airport, catch the nine o’clock flight from Washington to New York the way she did every Friday night. She’d arrive at his door at 10:00 P.M. She’d walk into the dark marble foyer dropping everything as she walked—coat, bag, keys—and click, click with her pointy heels, she’d walk to the bar and pour a Scotch.

David liked to lie on the black leather chaise by the fireplace, the night-lights of the city the only lights illuminating the room, and watch her. Drink in hand, Miranda would pace, clickety click and she’d talk, staccato. “Damned camera went out three times this week,” and “lost my damned place in the middle of the Israel story,” and “who does he think he is?” Click, click. And then the outer garments would come off. Jacket first, fling, into a chair, step, click, step, click, the skirt left in a heap. Then the blouse, impatiently untied, unbottoned, discarded on top of the skirt, and then, standing in her satin slip and heels, Miranda would say, “Good-night, David, I’m going to bed.” And then the game would begin. The Empress of No, he called her. The Empress of No.

David had been aware of Miranda Wu long before he met her. Hers was

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