3
The door slipped out of my somewhat moist palm when I opened it and was slammed not by the day's breeze, for there was no breeze, but by a draft that sucked through the Astolat Hotel—a current of air bearing the odors of food, carpets, paint, luggage, and the scents of rich women—a damp, thermal issue that would have incubated eggs.
Paul sat bolt upright in my bed.
He saw me, first. He stared at the room. He swung his feet to the floor.
"Gotta get going. Any news of her?"
"Take it easy, bo."
"What time is it?"
I told him.
"You've let me waste half the day?" His voice broke.
"Not waste it. Thought the rest would do you good. Bring you back to your senses a little. Seems not."