A long-haired brown-and-white dog came padding out of the early morning darkness, nose to the ground, passing within ten feet of Lockington. Lockington growled. The dog paid no attention. Somewhere in the distance a cat yowled. It was that time of year. A truck came out of Youngstown, pounding westward on Mahoning Avenue, its rumble dimming in the distance. That was all. Lockington unlocked his door, wondering about Natasha Gorky’s whereabouts and learning quickly. He found her sitting on the edge of his bed, naked as a jaybird, smiling her wonderfully lopsided smile. She crooked an inviting forefinger. She said, “Come here, please.”
Lockington said, “Breaking and entering really isn’t nice.”
Natasha’s pale-blue eyes sparkled. She said, “Neither is sex out of wedlock.” She dropped back on the bed, spreading her legs, running her hands across her flat, smooth belly. She said, “The hell it isn’t!”
Lockington sat on the overstuffed chair, lighting a cigarette. He said, “There are things we should talk about.”
She said, “They won’t keep until breakfast?”
Lockington’s eyes were riveted to the succulent center of Natasha Gorky. He left the overstuffed chair, extinguishing his cigarette. He said, “Yeah, they’ll keep until breakfast.”
A few minutes later she pitched and yawed under him, moaning, “Oh, dobry!—ooh, parfait!—oooh, meraviglioso!—ooooh, erstaunlich!—oooooh, vunderlich!—ooooooh, storartad!”
Lockington said, “What does that mean?”
Natasha gasped, “Later, dammit, later!”
They’d fallen asleep and she never did tell him, but he managed to figure it out for himself.