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The staircase is fairly dark but you can still sense the glare of the daylight outside so it doesn’t feel scary, just cool and slightly musty. Luckily, there’s only one apartment at the top of the staircase. I try the door and it’s open. For me, it’s more nerve-wracking to knock than to just go on in. He’s sitting in his living room with a beer and no shirt, watching TV. He looks at me, sort of amused, not really surprised.

“Persistent dress lady,” he says, “you are one persistent cookie.”

I love being called cookie. I love it. I love it.

I go to sit next to him on the couch.

“Do you know how to waltz?” I ask.

He flips a few channels and then turns off the TV. “So what’s the deal?” he says. “Are you a prostitute?”

The thing is, I’m not offended. This makes me feel like he’s getting the sexual vibe which makes me feel good, you know, alive.

“No,” I say. “I just like you. Do you have plans tonight? It’s Friday night, maybe we can do something.”

“I have plans tonight,” he says. He looks at his watch. “It’s two o’clock. In six hours.”

His chest is tan and a little bit doughy, soft nipples that look like a woman’s. For some reason it’s hard for me to even look at those nipples. They look so fragile, like fruit pulp waiting to be cut into wedges and served up in an exotic kiwi salad. It makes me want to crawl on top of him and put my thumbs on his soft fruity nipples and press down on them hard like they’re elevator buttons: hey, baby, take me to a higher floor. I wonder if he’s feeling lucky, I mean how often does a beautiful girl follow you home and come into your house? That’s lucky. That’s what guys wish for.

“So.” He leans back on his couch and grabs a cigarette from the side table. I knew it. “I suppose I’d like to cut that dress right off of you.”

“Really?”

“Yup.” He takes a long drag off his cigarette and then stubs it out. Maybe I should be scared, but I’m not. There’s the sound of all the cars and buses going by on Market Street, and it reassures me.

“Knife or scissors?”

He smiles. “Knife,” he says.

“I don’t know,” I say, “that’s a little much, I think, for me.”

“Scissors.” He relights the butt in the ashtray and smokes it again.

“Okay. Scissors.”

“You can let go of that incredible dress as easy as that?” he asks.

“I can.” I have a bank account the size of your apartment, I’m thinking. I can see, on his bathroom door, an adhesive hook holding up a black T-shirt.

He goes to his bedroom and comes out with a pair of orange-handled scissors. He walks slowly even though he knows I’m watching him. Back on the couch, he doesn’t sit any closer to me but just takes the hem and slices up, up past my hip, waist, side of my breast, under my arm, down the sleeve, up around, to the shoulder, snip at the neck. I feel like he took a letter opener and gently opened me up; he did such a neat job of it. Leaning back on his side of the couch, he replaces the scissors and surveys his work. I smile at him. The next move should be his.

“I don’t think I’m going to touch you,” he says.

I’m there, waiting, body cooled by the breeze coming in off the street through the window behind us.

“What?” I know he can see my breast; it’s right there; I can sense it out of the bottom of my eye.

“Nope.” He stands up and looks around.

“What, are you going to tie me up or something?” I slide out my other arm so that my upper body is exposed, just my legs and waist still swathed in maroon satin. His couch is kelly green and it’s an interesting contrast. I spend a minute appreciating this.

“Tie you up?” He goes to the refrigerator and pours himself a glass of water. “No. I don’t do that shit.” He doesn’t seem to even notice that I’m half out of the dress.

“Hello,” I say, “what is going on here? You just opened up my dress.”

“Yeah,” he says, “thanks.”

“But we have six hours,” I tell him, “you said we have six hours.”

“Well,” he says, sipping the water, the counter between us, “what would you like to do?”

I’m up off the