The truth was, I had been unwilling, once again, to face the night unsleepy and alone. I didn't want a girl; this one, or any one, except Ricky.
But the not-wanting of solitude was the greater negative.
She'd turned to another radio station and found a slow rumba. She drank deeply—standing—and moving her hips in tempo.
"Come on," she said.
Unwillingly, and unwilling to protest the heat of the night, I began to dance with her. She was, as Hattie had promised, very good.
I thought that presently I would stop this and send her home. It would be awkward.
And then, as the music quickened and we made a spot turn in the center of the room, I saw through the doors to the doors beyond—the doors that led to Yvonne's room. Mine was no longer flatly parallel with the wall.
I raised my voice. "Come on in, Yvonne!"
I had never relocked the door on my side.
She came in.