She had an apartment on West Seventy-third, just off Central Park, in the looming shadow of the Dakota building.
When Szabo asked where he might be staying, she took him home with her.
The fuck was passionate and heartless. She took him with a loud desperation. He was a machine—the rod to her cleft. After eighteen months and more of enforced celibacy he found it in him not to mind being ravished by beauty. His own desperation much the quieter.