job?â heâd screamed at the time. âI have my work!â He had then gone into a silent tantrum that lasted three days. It had been three very peaceful days for her.
    This time he barely uttered a reply before collapsing onto the couch. It wasnât the bed, but she decided to leave him there. It wasnât worth the aggravation somehow, and besides, she had to get to the interview. She had to get the job. She just had to. If for no other reason than the fact that, within two days, the employment agencies would no longer be able to get in touch with her. The phone company would be disconnecting the phone.
    She let the towel drop to the ground as she looked at the small assortment of clothes that hung in her closet. She heard a stirring in the living room and for one moment fantasized that he was waking up. That he would come into the room, see her standing there as she was, naked, her hair wet, and her body slim and supple. That he would take her in his arms and make wild, intense love to her. Despite the fact that she had to get to the job, she would welcome that kind of spontaneous, wildly romantic lovemaking in her life. It would be a nice change of pace.
    He snorted and turned over on the couch.
    She hoped against hope there would be further noise, but there wasnât. So she allowed herself the luxury of sitting down on the threadbare bedspread and sobbing for five minutes. Then she dressed quickly and quietly, went back into the bathroom, washed the tears from her face as best she could and let herself out of the apartment. The soft click of the door roused the man sleeping on the couch only briefly.
G WEN LOOKED UP at the small office building on Twenty-eighth and Broadway. The words âCamelot Buildingâ were stenciled in fading gilt letters on the glass above the entrance. An ironic name, she thought, for Camelot was a place of pageantry and legend. This somewhat rundown building was hardly that. It was, in every way, unremarkable. Then again, she thought, so was she. She immediately chided herself for taking such a defeatist view. It was exactly the kind of thing her therapist had warned her against, back when she could afford a therapist. She took a deep breath to steady herself, tried for the hundredth time to get herself pumped up for the meeting while simultaneously not magnifying its importance out of all proportion, and then entered the main lobby.
    The guard at the front desk had to be at least sixty and didnât seem especially capable of guarding anyone from anything unless it was a threat that was moving very, very slowly. He glanced up at her. âCan I help you, miss?â
    She had been looking at the directory on the wall, and turned to him now. âYes. Iâm trying to find the offices of a Mr. Arthur Penn.â
    He looked blank for a moment, and she felt her hopes sink. She wasnât even going to get out of the starting gate on this one. This whole thing had been some sort of confusion or wild goose chase. She was beginning to wonder if she was her own worst enemy, her inability to get a decent job sabotaged by her own ineptness. But then hisface cleared and he said, âRight. New fella. Thirteenth floor.â
    She looked at him askance. âI thought buildings didnât have thirteenth floors.â
    The guard shrugged. âFellow who built this place wasnât a superstitious sort.â
    âOh, really?â
    âYeah. And he was a lucky fella too. He was fortunate enough to see his work completed.â He coughed. âDay after, he got hit by a truck. You can go on up.â
    âGee, thanks.â How comforting to know that, just when she thought she couldnât feel worse ⦠she could.
    He chucked a thumb
    This time he barely uttered a reply before collapsing onto the couch. It wasnât the bed, but she decided to leave him there. It wasnât worth the aggravation somehow, and besides, she had to get to the interview. She had to get the job. She just had to. If for no other reason than the fact that, within two days, the employment agencies would no longer be able to get in touch with her. The phone company would be disconnecting the phone.
    She let the towel drop to the ground as she looked at the small assortment of clothes that hung in her closet. She heard a stirring in the living room and for one moment fantasized that he was waking up. That he would come into the room, see her standing there as she was, naked, her hair wet, and her body slim and supple. That he would take her in his arms and make wild, intense love to her. Despite the fact that she had to get to the job, she would welcome that kind of spontaneous, wildly romantic lovemaking in her life. It would be a nice change of pace.
    He snorted and turned over on the couch.
    She hoped against hope there would be further noise, but there wasnât. So she allowed herself the luxury of sitting down on the threadbare bedspread and sobbing for five minutes. Then she dressed quickly and quietly, went back into the bathroom, washed the tears from her face as best she could and let herself out of the apartment. The soft click of the door roused the man sleeping on the couch only briefly.
G WEN LOOKED UP at the small office building on Twenty-eighth and Broadway. The words âCamelot Buildingâ were stenciled in fading gilt letters on the glass above the entrance. An ironic name, she thought, for Camelot was a place of pageantry and legend. This somewhat rundown building was hardly that. It was, in every way, unremarkable. Then again, she thought, so was she. She immediately chided herself for taking such a defeatist view. It was exactly the kind of thing her therapist had warned her against, back when she could afford a therapist. She took a deep breath to steady herself, tried for the hundredth time to get herself pumped up for the meeting while simultaneously not magnifying its importance out of all proportion, and then entered the main lobby.
    The guard at the front desk had to be at least sixty and didnât seem especially capable of guarding anyone from anything unless it was a threat that was moving very, very slowly. He glanced up at her. âCan I help you, miss?â
    She had been looking at the directory on the wall, and turned to him now. âYes. Iâm trying to find the offices of a Mr. Arthur Penn.â
    He looked blank for a moment, and she felt her hopes sink. She wasnât even going to get out of the starting gate on this one. This whole thing had been some sort of confusion or wild goose chase. She was beginning to wonder if she was her own worst enemy, her inability to get a decent job sabotaged by her own ineptness. But then hisface cleared and he said, âRight. New fella. Thirteenth floor.â
    She looked at him askance. âI thought buildings didnât have thirteenth floors.â
    The guard shrugged. âFellow who built this place wasnât a superstitious sort.â
    âOh, really?â
    âYeah. And he was a lucky fella too. He was fortunate enough to see his work completed.â He coughed. âDay after, he got hit by a truck. You can go on up.â
    âGee, thanks.â How comforting to know that, just when she thought she couldnât feel worse ⦠she could.
    He chucked a thumb
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