“No, Jim. You can’t do that.” “Yes, Sandy, I can. You cannot
do anything about it, except enjoy it. There is no room in this
car to do anything, but explore, so don’t worry.” “I…I don’t
think we should.” “All right, just a few brief moments. It
won’t hurt.”

“Lady? Find the Lady?”

“No.”

“Three chances to find the Lady, lady. Double your money. Little money
down.”

“No.” I’m still standing there. He’s reaching up. The cracks in
his fingers are black, his fingers are yellow. Filth-yellow.
Gray-yellow. Dirtier than money. I put money in them, smooth money too
old to rustle. It’s gone like that. He’s all business, now, he doesn’t
smile.

“Three cards, lady.” He lays them out. “Which one’s the Lady?
Which one’s the Queen of Joy?”

I point, not with my hand. My small foot, five white piggies,
crushed to a point, points at the middle card. My blue shoe, my blue-green
office shoe points for me. It matches my scarf, my bag.

“No, lady, not the deuce, we want to find the the Lady. Show me
my pretty Lady, I know I lost her somewhere here.”

I haven’t looked, my eyes are just above his head, it could be any
card. He doesn’t have to cheat to fool me. I point again, twitch to the
left.

“No, my lady, we want something softer than diamonds. Not the
seven. Find the Lady. Try, lady.”

I look. He’s looking back. His lost eyes only show their
blackness, white and iris gone in folds of old skin. He’s sweating, same
as me, same as everyone, water glinting in his ruined cheeks, his neck.
He’s not all that old. Maybe forty? Less?

“I guess it must be the third card. That one.”

“You, lose, lady, not there, not that one. So much for double
your money. Too bad. Thought you were a lucky lady.”

I’m still standing there. I wanted to see her. He shuffles up
the cards, glances up the street, forgets me.

“I want to play again.”

“How’s that?”

“I’ll play again.” I hold out money. “Three chances. Double my
money. I’ll play.”

“Tell you what.” The money’s gone. “I like you, lady. Why don’t
I show you where she lives.”

Impossible to look at that face, or look away. Gray, street color,
and the inside of the mouth like a wound, like a flayed thing. The wet
stone eyes again, lost, unreachable; broken, unfixable. And the body.
Squat, smashed. The fat, blunt fingers, clever at small things, tricky.
The swollen legs and shapeless trunk.

“I like you, lady.”

“Show me the Queen.”

It doesn’t surprise me. The instant before, I know exactly what I
asked for, what I’m getting, and his hand is on my shin. My leg jerks,
but not away. His fingers are like smooth wood. They catch on my panty
hose. He strokes, lightly.

“There’s the Lady. There’s the Queen.”

My own face twists. Water breaks from my eyes like glass chips.
What could make me want this? What, ever? There are people in the
street, am I this lost? Am I this far from safety, from
cleanness, white sheets? I hope he will reach higher. I hope his thick
thumb finds my dirty, wrinkled part. I hope he presses softly in, past the
labia’s weak protest, deep. My shoulders shake, desperate, and I gasp and
choke. He strokes, still gentle, up, under my pretty skirt’s stiff rim.

“That’s my pretty Queen of Joy.”

Desperate, I stare up the street. If one face sees me I will
become sane, will know I am being groped by a bum and lose myself in
disgust. But no one looks. I realise I am completely safe. No decent
eye will see this ugliness of the street. By this mad act I have
become the city’s filth, as invisible as my starving attacker. He tugs
down my cotton panties, twiddles with my hair. I could dare to moan. I
moan. The louder I am, the deafer the walkers become. Only prurient tourists
hear. I sink to my knees, and he finds the open place. Filth. His
fingernail leaves traces of contagion in my softest flesh. Vile. He
slides all the way out, shows me a bunch of three fingers, shoves that in.

He has his own cock out now, and his stroke with himself is
faster, more casual than with me. It looks exactly like the last cock I
saw, dark-headed, small, twisting a little away from him. I am so full now
that I feel my body is half his. His fingers move independently inside me,
rubbing against each other like a clutch of brother snakes. Then the
fourth slides in. Its nail catches, a little stab. My teeth grind, the
water on my face is half tears, half spittle. I cry out as if for
childbirth or death.

After I come I stay, with him inside me. I watch him, and he
looks down at himself, at the site of his own pleasure. He leaves his
hand sunk in me, moving a little, and pumps up and down on himself. I
look. I want to see this act when desire is finished. I try to know
exactly what grossness I have done. I try to relearn disgust. I can’t.
When his semen flies, two drops land on my skirt. I touch one. His cries
are strained and quiet, and he slumps against the grey wall, then looks up
at me. Now he smiles, and, God, I see his browning, narrow teeth.

“You’re quite a lady, Lady.”

He takes his hand out of me, but I still don’t stand for a while.
I raise the hand that touched his semen to my mouth. My damp hand
shakes. No one walks past. Though no one looked at us, still we have
cleared the street. I struggle up, survey the ruin of my hose.

“Well, Lady, I sure hope to see you. Hey?”

I go. I leave my purse. My face is wet and red, my feet stagger.
I try smiling at a girl I pass. Terrified eyes flick away. Good.
The invisibility’s still working. I’m inhuman for the duration. The sun
hits my body, the stink of trash fills my lungs, and I walk faster and
faster. At the corner I turn, and I must know this street but it looks
different. I put my head down and watch my blue-green shoes click on the
pavement. I turn another way, half run, half drag. I can’t say where I’m
headed. How could I possibly go back to work? How could I possibly hope
to find home?