seeing her like that

"You don't mind seeing me like this,she asks drawn down fromher roof top sunbathing to answerthe door with me standing on thestoop like a vacuum cleanersalesman who has forgotten hispitch, stuttering out the words"of course not," and meaning eachone as a pledge, her thin body exposed except at the mostvital places, a 1960s innovationthat had men like me flocking to beaches to see what we couldnot see in any other setting,"this lets me get a tan allover," she says, part of a preparationfor a week-long trip withanother man she knows she willlet make love to her and herface still flushed with alook of anticipation as if shecan already feel his hand onher and the need for him tofeed something much deeper, something she has waited for, and is weary of waiting for, and somethingthat has almost nothing to dowith me or the imaginary vacuumcleaner I might want to sell