"Right. I mean...I guess so. But...this was your idea, wasn't it?"

"You mean, not Kite's?"

"Yes. He never even heard of this place," she said.

"You sound surprised."

"Well, I was a little. It's so...complete here. I mean, they have everything. I thought it would be...famous, like."

"It might be, some day. But it's brandanew now. And I don't think they're much about publicity- I'm sure the last thing they need is more customers."

"It's mostly kids, huh? I mean, when I was waiting. With Jennifer. It seemed like the place was full of kids."

"Sure. That's why we're here with her, isn't it? Something that happened when she was a kid?"

"I know. It's just that...you know what I was thinking? That maybe there should be a special place. Just for grownaups who had it...happen when they were kids. Not a kids' place. You understand what I mean?"

"They have places like that, Heather. Places full of grownaups who got all fucked up when they were kids."

"What...places?"

"Prisons. Whorehouses. Psycho wards."

Her face fell. "I don't mean that. There are plenty of...kids who didn't turn out like that. No matter what happened to them."

"That's true. I'm not arguing with you. Being abused...it's no guarantee."

"It's no excuse either," she said, looking at me with those orange eyes.

A gentle knock at the door. Room service. Guy in a maroon uniform with black piping on the sleeves, OSCAR on an aluminum strip over his heart. He wheeled in a table of food, spent a few minutes showily setting it up: uncapping the dishes, laying out the silverware, working hard for the ten bucks I eventually put on top of the bill after I signed it.

"Thank you, sir. Just call Room Service when you want the table cleared away."

The food was okay. Nothing spectacular. But the steak was mediumawell, the way I'd ordered it, the salad was crisp, with no brown on the lettuce, and they didn't stint on the ice. Heather tore into it with gusto, cleaning her plate and uncapping the goblet of vanilla ice cream like a gold miner unearthing a plump nugget.

"I shouldn't eat so much," she said, smiling.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm fat," she said.

"No you're not," I told her matteraofafactly.

Her face flushed. She dropped her eyes, saying nothing.

It was past eleven by the time Oscar had collected the food table. I sat back in the only easy chair the hotel put in the suite, lit a cigarette and closed my eyes.

"You have a headache?" Heather asked softly. If the cigarette puzzled her, her voice didn't show it.

"No big deal," I told her, wondering how she could have known. "They never last."

"You want an aspirin or something?" she said, making a circuit of the room turning off the lights. The curtains were open and the room was flooded with moonlight, strong enough to see by.

"No, I'm fine."

She went into the bathroom, closed the door behind her. I smoked slowly, letting the dark quiet comfort my headache. Just as I finished the cigarette, the bathroom door opened and Heather stepped into the moonlight. The only white left on her was her body. The black bra topped a matching garter belt, the hooks dangling loose against her round thighs. She was barefoot.

"Still think I'm not fat?" she whispered across the room.

The moonlight penetrated the bedroom too. Heather's pale body gleamed in the reflection. On her knees, hands clasped at the intersection of her thighs, she looked down at me lying on my back, hands behind my head, listening, eyes slitted so she was a soft blur.

"I don't know a lot about...this part," she said, biting her lower lip. She reached behind her and unclasped the black bra. Her breasts spilled out in a lush tumble. She cupped them, pulling them toward her mouth, licked the top of each one. "I used to do this all the time," she said. "By myself. When I was alone. I wanted to know what it felt like."

I didn't say anything, just made a sound to let her know I was paying attention, waiting for the rest of it, whatever it was.