Sunday, October 13

     For the sixth time, Cassandra Lopez checked the lasagna in the warming oven. It had been ready at three, when Rom was due. That had been an hour ago.  The tray of garlic bread stood ready to be toasted under the broiler. The valpolicella was still cooling in the fridge. Cassandra went to the big window again.
 Had Rom forgotten?  They'd had lunch Friday and made the date for Sunday dinner. They had agreed upon three, hadn't they?  Or was it four?  Damn, she wished Rom had a phone.
     She pushed the wreckage of the Sunday Times to one side of the sofa and plopped down.  Why was she nervous?  It was just dinner, in her home, with an old friend.  The lasagna was perfect, or would be if Rom weren't too late getting there.  The apartment looked neat and clean, save for the Times.  Cassandra wore a purple cashmere sweater, no bra, blue jeans and tiny diamond earrings.  She wore no nail polish, just a hint of eyeliner and the barest trace of lipstick.  She'd put a dab of Opium perfume on her wrists and behind her ears and had brushed and polished her teeth until they sparkled.
     She thought about Rom.  There always had been something different about him that touched her.  He was unlike the other boys at St. Rose, almost like an exchange student from another country.  She'd noticed, behind his common boyhood pursuits of noise and mischief, the quiet, dreamy facet of his nature.  She'd studied his quick eyes, the ironic set of his mouth.  She'd observed the storms of emotion that played over his young face.  And in the sanctuary provided by the boys' friendship, she'd gradually chartered a course into the life of her brother's best friend.
     She'd known what she was doing the night she made her move.  And she knew that for a moment Rom had seen into her soul.  They had made thrilling love; she had climaxed deliriously and lain for many long minutes, out of breath, beneath him, whispering "I love you" and falling asleep in his arms.  He was her first, and still, somehow, her best.
     She shook herself now from her reverie.  All that was a long time ago.  Rom was a priest, for crying out loud!  There would be no pursuit, no awkward posturing, like on a date. This was dinner.  Sunday dinner.  With an old friend.
     "Cassandra," she said, "get a hold on yourself, girl."  She rose again and went into the bedroom.  She had started packing for the Orlando trip, even though she wouldn't be leaving until Tuesday.  On the waterbed, among the unpacked clothes, lay two swimsuits she was bringing in case the hotel had a decent pool.  One, last year's model, was a flattering black one-piece.  She picked up the other, a daring yellow and black "thong" bikini she'd bought for her last Caribbean trip, and threw it back into a dresser drawer.  "Nah," she said, "not in Orlando."
     She jumped when the intercom buzzed, and  told the security guard to let the gentleman up.  She touched up her lipstick and smoothed her sweater.  When she answered the door her smile vanished.  There stood Rom, in jeans, a sweatshirt, sunglasses, a bruised face and a fat lip.
     "Oh my God!  What happened to you?"
     "Would you believe I, uh, just ran into a door?"  Rom's smile was crooked, pleading.
     "Come in here."  She pulled him in and shut the door.  "OK, let's see the eye." He removed the sunglasses.  His right eye was a sea of red surrounded by a swollen palette of black and purple.  Cassandra sucked in her breath and winced.
     "Hey," said Rom, "my eye matches your sweater.  Am I the perfect guest or what?"
     "Rom, what happened to you?  You've been in another fight, haven't you?  That's twice in one week!"  She stood on tiptoe and gently turned his head left and right.  Her touch felt cool and wonderful.
     "You know, Cassandra, I'm starting to agree with you about our old neighborhood.  It ain't what it used to be."
     "Is that where it happened?  Does it hurt?"
     "I'll live.  How about a drink?  I smell lasagna."  He moved into the living room.
     Cassandra was still standing by the door, arms akimbo.  "Nice of you to drop by.  I was starting to worry."
     Rom was at the window.  "I know.  I'm sorry.  Rough night."
     "I guess.  What are you drinking?"
     "Anything but a martini."  He kept looking out the window.  Cassandra went into the kitchen.
     "I got some valpolicella for dinner.  Wanna start on it?"
     "Perfect."  He sat down on the couch, turning over the Times front page.  Its headline read "Black-Clad Vigilante Gets Split Decision in Central Park Battles."  Cassandra came in and put the bottle and corkscrew on the coffee table.
     "Would you open it, please?" she said.  "And are you going to tell me what happened?"
 Rom sighed and picked up the corkscrew.  "I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, Cassandra.  It's OK, I'm OK, and it won't happen again, believe me."
     "I worry about you being over there."  She nodded toward the dying neighborhood across Branch Brook Park.  "How did it happen this time?"
     "It's stupid, really.  I feel totally stupid about the whole thing.  I really don't want to talk about it.  I guess I'm rather embarrassed."  He quickly twisted the corkscrew into the bottle.
     They looked at each other a second.  She winced again.
     "You want me to put my glasses back on?" he asked meekly.  She laughed, put her arms around him and hugged him.
     "No, leave them off."  She went into the kitchen and returned a second later with wine glasses.   "I'll try not to stare.  And I promise I won't grill you anymore about it.  Now pour me some wine before you spill it."
     Before he finished pouring, the phone rang and Cassandra bounced off the couch to answer it.  Rom put the bottle down and took a sip, a small one.  He didn't want to overdo it again.  Since his return, he'd been drinking more than ever.
     He got up, went over to the immense window and looked out.  He thought back to the night before.  It had been the longest cab ride, the longest wait at Penn Station, the longest 20-minute train ride ever.  He had thrown up four times by the time he'd reached Newark and taken a cab to Roseville. He'd entered his apartment and looked in the bathroom mirror and almost screamed.  His face had been puffy, his hair disheveled, and there had been dried blood under his nose, caked into his mustache, and along his swollen lip.  His eye had closed and his face had showed new bruises on top of old ones. His jacket lapel had been torn, and his pants had been ripped at one knee.
     He'd taken a cold shower and then sat at the red formica table wearing a towel, trying to think.  Nausea had started to creep across his stomach again, and he'd found the weed he'd bought the other night.   "It works for chemotherapy patents," he'd muttered.  "Why shouldn't it settle my stomach?"  He'd rolled a respectable joint and lit it, sucking the smoke as deep into his lungs as his aching ribs would allow.
     He'd abandoned heavy thinking after that and listened to oldies until nearly one. Headachey but nausea-free, he'd drifted off to dreamless sleep.  He'd awakened at noon, with a fresh headache and sore ribs but hungry.  He'd showered — lukewarm again — and carefully shaved.  His face hadn't looked much better than when he'd gone to bed.
     He'd donned his dark glasses and driven out to the Short-Stop for breakfast (Steak & Eggs, $4.75 w/ Cup of Rich Coffee) and the Sunday News.  Its giant headline — "Zorro Zaps Park Punks" — topped a full-page photo of the vigilante kicking the Columbus Circle troublemaker in the crotch.  He'd devoured the reports of his two Saturday escapades and learned that the mounted cop hadn't been hurt, the robber was in critical condition at St. Vincent's, the horse had found its way back to the park stables, and the jogger had suffered only minor leg bruises but was planning to sue the city for inadequate police protection and the cost of a Rolex watch he claimed the masked man stole.  At that item, Rom had blurted out "Lying prick!" and momentarily distracted his neighbors at the diner counter.
     An N.Y.P.D. spokesman, he'd read, said the police had no idea where the Son of Zorro had gone or who he was and called him "a crackpot vigilante who's lucky to be alive.  From what we gather, he was roughed up by the alleged perpetrator, and we really don't expect any more incidents."  He'd added that the vigilante, when and if he were apprehended, would be charged with "wearing a mask to conceal identity" and horse theft.
     On the way back home Rom had bought a Sunday Star-Ledger and clipped the Zorro stories and stuck them into his typewriter case.  After a nap he'd awakened feeling better, and after mulling it over for a while he'd decided to keep his date for Sunday dinner.

     Cassandra hung up and rejoined Rom.  "That was Hector.  He's coming over later.  He says make sure I keep you here ‘til he comes."  She was smiling, more relaxed.
     "Hey, you got me.  I'm a captive."  He sat back down, and Cassandra went into the kitchen.
     "Well, it's a rare occasion when he visits me.  He said you dropped by  yesterday.  What did you think of  his apartment?"
     "In a word, small."  Rom poured more wine.
     "Like the rent.  Can you believe what he pays?  I'm sure he told you.  He tells everybody.  You ready to eat?"  He watched her gracefully load the garlic bread into the broiler, and a taste of her musky perfume reached him.  "Rom? Are you hungry?"
     "I'm hungry, alright."  The way it sounded brought her to the doorway, where she stood smiling like the Mona Lisa.
     Throughout the meal it was hard for Cassandra not to look at Rom's black eye.  She also let her eyes linger more than once on his fat lip and assorted bruises.  Rom was starting to wish he'd begged off the dinner when Cassandra suddenly reached across the glass-topped dinette, took his hand and asked him to leave the old neighborhood and stay in her apartment while he was in town.
     When Rom finally managed to swallow his mouthful, he tried to laugh it off.  "Hell, I'll just be in town another few days.  The delegation leaves Wednesday.  Listen, I'll be OK. I've learned my lesson."
     "Please, Rom.  I'm worried about you.  It's not like it's crowded around here.  There's a spare room, you know.  And you'd be doing me a favor, watching the apartment when I go away Tuesday."
     Rom poured more wine.  "Now that's stretching it!  What do you have that lazy security guard for?"  He squeezed her hand.  She lowered her eyes and freed her hand to reach for her glass.  She drained it.
     "OK, wiseguy.  You know what I mean.  I'd just feel better.  Will you think about it?"
     "I'll think about it."
     Cassandra smiled.  "Good.  You think about it.  I'll get the dessert."  She got up and went into the kitchen.  Just then the door buzzer sounded.  "Will you get that?" she called out.
     Rom got up and opened the apartment door.  Before him stood a man wearing a black mask.  "Trick or treat!" said the man.
     Rom blinked.  His mouth opened but no words came out.
     Cassandra's voice came from behind Rom.  "Oh, no!  It's the Son of Zorro, come to clean my clock!  How did you get past the desk?"
     John F. Lopez entered the room and sat down, putting a videocassette on the coffee table.  "The guard remembered me, and I told him I wanted to surprise you."   He smiled, but he was looking at Rom.
     "Well, you surprised me," Cassandra said.   "Did he surprise you, Rom?"
     Rom cleared his throat.  "Uh, yes."
     Cassandra disappeared into the kitchen and came back out with an empty glass.  "Have some wine, O masked man, and spare me.  I am pure of heart."
     "Yes," said Lopez, "pure as the driven gravel."
     "Oh, shut up.  Rom, would you get our glasses?  You hungry, Hector?"  She filled her brother's glass.
     "No, but I will be soon.  I brought somethin' for ya."
     "Oh, good!  I'm almost out.  And I've got that trip coming up."
     Rom returned with his and Cassandra's glasses.  The color had returned to his face.  "I may have been sequestered much of my young life," he said, "but I know doper talk when I hear it."
     "Oh Hector," Cassandra said with a sly smile, "you'll like this.  The other day, some elf or somebody rolled a joint and left my stash box out on the coffee table.  Think we should call the Inquirer?"
     "OK, OK, you caught me," said Rom.  "But remember, you offered."  He sat on a big bean-bag chair across from the sofa.
     "Relax," said Cassandra.  "When you're up for pope we'll swear we never saw a thing. Your secret is safe with us, right, Hector?"
     Lopez smiled.  "Well, that one is."  He shot Rom a look that left no doubt.
     Her brother's tone brought a quizzical look to Cassandra's face.  She regarded him.  "Take that mask off, willya?  It suits you!"
     Lopez removed the mask and dropped it on the coffee table near Rom.  "Looks like you've been in another fight, Rom."
     "He doesn't want to discuss it," said Cassandra.
     "I'm sure he doesn't."
     She gave her brother a curious look and poured herself more wine.  "So what did you bring us?"
     Lopez grinned and handed the tape to Cassandra.  "Well, you probably both know I am the only news cameraman in the metropolitan area to capture on tape the Son of Zorro in action."
     "Yes! I saw that last night," said Cassandra.  She was loading the tape into the VCR. "Excellent work, Hector.  But what a scene!  I would've been outta there.  Did you see that, Rom?"
     "Uh, I read the papers this morning."
     "Cops think it's the same guy who made two appearances in your neighborhood, Rom," said Lopez.  He was looking over the rim of his wine glass.  He brought it down and turned to Cassandra. "Valpolicella?"
     "Bingo."
     "Chilled.  How common!"
     "Oh, shut up.  I like it chilled." She switched the TV on. "Don't you, Rom?"
     Rom had started sweating.  "Yes," he said distractedly.  "Chilled is fine."
     She grabbed the remote and sat next to her brother.  She glanced toward Rom, who seemed to be looking at the TV screen with fear.
     "Rom?  You OK?"
     "Yeah, fine," he said quickly.  "So what are we gonna watch here?"
     Lopez took the control and hit "Play."  "I thought you guys might wanna see this."
     Rom's heart sank.  It was the footage from Columbus Circle.  Lopez began to talk over it as if he were narrating a travelogue.
     "OK, here's Melody, brave thing, trying to finish the report.  Notice Dr. Whatsisface over there, getting more and more pissed off.  He didn't even get a chance to plug his book. OK, here's the first bottle thrown."
     "Who gets the honor at these occasions, Hector?" asked Cassandra.  She imitated a news announcer.  "And here's the first lady, stepping up to throw out the first bottle."
     She and Lopez laughed.  Rom wasn't even seeing the screen anymore.  He wiped his wet palms on his jeans and reached for more wine.  Lopez resumed.
     "OK, here's where Melody gets clocked.  Bonk!  Ouch, that smarts."
     Cassandra grimaced.  "She looks pretty pissed, too."
     "She was, and scared.  So was Esposito.  I thought he was gonna shit his pants."
     Cassandra turned to him.  "Esposito.  That's the sound guy, right?"
     "Right.  OK, here's the big entrance.  Watch this.  The crowd parts, just like Jesus is comin' through — pardon me, Father."  He shot a glance at Rom, who was now visibly squirming.  "And here he is, your friend and mine — "
     " — the Son of Zorro!" Cassandra finished.  She applauded.  "Yeah, what a man!"
     "OK, now look at this.  He just ruins this microphone, whipping it around like that. But wait — here's my favorite part.  He feints with his left . . . and he kicks the poor bastard right in the brisket!  The guy from the News got a good shot of that.  Page One."
     "Down he goes!" said Cassandra.  "I'm falling, and I can't get up!"  She and Lopez laughed.  "This is pretty much the footage I saw on the news.  What else you got here?"
     "Well, actually," said Lopez, "I thought you might help me out.  Wait a second — " Lopez ran the tape back to where the Son of Zorro was swinging the microphone.  He started the tape forward again; the shot tightened into a waist-high closeup, and he hit the "Pause" button.
     There, in mid-swing, was the vigilante, teeth bared in tension. Now Lopez sat up straight.  He didn't look over at Rom.  "Now maybe I'm going nuts, but I could swear I've seen this guy before.  Anybody recognize him?"
     Cassandra leaned forward and squinted.  "Well, let's see.  We can make out only the lower half of his face.  Modest mustache.  Even Rom's got one of those.  Hmmm.  Something odd about that shirt.  Let's see, some marks on the chin, look like bruises — "  She sat up abruptly, blinked and looked over at Lopez.  Together they turned and looked at Rom.  His head was in his hands.

     A few minutes later, Cassandra was wiping away tears of laughter.  Lopez sat on the sofa, drinking his wine, watching his old friend.  Rom stood at the window, looking out.
     "It — it just snowballed, I don't know," he said.  He turned around, red-faced, and started to pace.      "First there was the kid's bicycle.  I knew the kid. I liked him.  Then I saw those punks steal his bike. I  saw it.  I saw it, and I did nothing, because I was afraid of getting clobbered again.  I felt like shit.  It was like running away from the situation, like leaving the kid and everything there to rot.  I — wanted to stop it, I guess.  To do something."
     Lopez raised his eyebrows.  "So you went out and got a mask and tracked them down?"
     "Socks."
     "What?"
     "Socks.  Two black socks.  With holes cut in them.  I stapled it together."  Cassandra started laughing again.  "And it wasn't hard finding them.  I cruised around a little and saw them heading down under the bridge.  No great detective work."
     "The railroad tie was a nice touch," said Lopez.
     "Weren't you scared?" asked Cassandra.  "There were two of them."
     "Hell," said Lopez, "there were a hundred in Columbus Circle!"
     Rom sat in the bean bag chair again.  "Was I scared?  Well, yeah, but I did it anyway.  I don't know.  God, this is embarrassing!"
     Cassandra went over to him, knelt and took his hand.  "Oh Rom, don't be embarrassed. You're a hero, you know."
     "I'm crazy."
     "I agree," said Lopez.  "You're lucky to be alive.  Any one of those little escapades coulda left you dead."
     "Well, he's not dead," said Cassandra.  "You were great, Rom."
     Lopez jumped up.  "Don't encourage him, Cassandra!  He's a priest, for chrissake!"  He turned to Rom.  "Aren't you s'posed to be holy or somethin'?  You're s'posed to be saving souls, not — stealing horses!"
     Rom looked close to tears.  Cassandra gave her brother a dirty look.
     Lopez sat down again and grabbed his glass.  "I'm sorry, man.  I'm still not sure why you did it, but l hope to hell you stop here.  I think you've been away too long.  This is New York, not Oregon."  He pronounced it  "Ory-gone."
     Rom sighed.  "Yeah, I'm stopping here.  Huh.  Look at me.  This hero business is killing me."  He started to laugh but wound up crying.
     Cassandra, still kneeling next to the bean bag chair, put Rom's head against her breast and stroked his hair.  "Take it easy, Rom," she said.  "You don't have to say anything more."
     Rom reached for his handkerchief.  His head had begun to hurt again, and the sobs were killing his sore ribs.  Should he tell them?  He debated for a second.   "I do have something that's been bothering me.  I — "  He looked at Lopez, then Cassandra.  "I — I ruined my good black suit."
     They all laughed, and Rom went into the bathroom to wash his face.  Cassandra turned on her brother and broke into rapid-fire Spanish.  "I could kill you.  Why did you spring it on him like this?  I spoke to you on the phone not an hour ago.  Why didn't you tell me?"
     Her brother replied in Spanish.  "Listen, to tell you the truth, I wasn't sure myself until I saw him all banged up.  This is crazy, Cassandra.  I'm wondering if we know this guy anymore.  Did you ever think he might be dangerous?"
     "I think you're dangerous," she said angrily.  She looked for a cigaret.  "Listen, he'll calm down and maybe he'll tell us more about it.  I just think you really ambushed him. Maybe you should go.  I'll call you later."
     "Oh, now it's my fault!"
     "Shut up! Just go."  She lit a cigaret and exhaled, then continued in English.  "You got something for me?"
     Lopez pulled a small plastic bag from his pocket and tossed it to her. "Here."  Cassandra caught it.  "What do I owe you?"
     "Fuck you.  Have a nice trip."
     "Fuck you, too."  She was smiling again.  "You driving?"
     "Of course I'm driving."  He wasn't smiling yet.
     "Drive carefully.  I love you."  She hugged her brother.  Rom came out of the bathroom.
     "I, uh, still know a few words, you know, like peligro.  Listen, I'm not dangerous. Crazy, perhaps.  Ugly, definitely, but not dangerous."
     They laughed again.  Lopez apologized, hugged his friend and left after snatching up from the coffee table the cheap Halloween mask he'd brought.  "Just so you won't be tempted," he said.
     Cassandra pushed him out the door, closed it and stood there.  " ‘For Hector, in his blaze of wrath, subscribes to tender objects.'"
     "Shakespeare?"
     "Troilus and Cressida."
     Rom sighed.  "Naturally.  Well, I guess the cat's out of the bag. Now what?"
     Cassandra smiled.  "Could you stand watching that tape again?  I just can't get enough of it."
     A small bird landed in Rom's heart.
 

     The weed Lopy had brought was excellent, and Rom and Cassandra watched the footage twice, then twice more in slow motion, as they finished the joint.
     Rom filled Cassandra in on the details of each of his four adventures, then questioned Cassandra more about her life.  She'd been to Europe, Russia and Japan, worked on four newspapers and three magazines, met two presidents, won four awards for reporting and page layout, and had one lousy marriage and a series of love affairs, mostly brief, that had left her cynical about men but hopeful that she would find love one day.
     They drank more wine — they had moved on to a Hudson Valley cabernet — and Cassandra tried to steer the topic back to Rom again
    "You know, I'm getting kinda sick of myself," he said.  "I don't remember when I talked about myself so much."
     "Nonsense," said Cassandra, starting to slur her words.  "I want you to write that book. You have a story, Rom.  You've had a life!"
     "Everybody's got a life."
     "You know what I mean. Yours is fascinating."
     "Hell, you met two presidents," Rom said.
     "Yeah, but they were two crappy ones."
     "Well, that's show biz."  Rom took another sip and looked at her happy, slightly flushed face.  God, she looked younger than 37!
     "Well," she said, "I still think you've led a fascinating life.  A bit shocking, some parts."
     "Sorry about that."
     Cassandra sipped some more.  "You're forgiven."
     "That's my line.  But hey, you haven't exactly been living under a rock.  I'll bet you could shock me."
     She thought a moment, then put her glass down and got up with the slightest unsteadiness.  "You know, I bet I could shock you at that."  She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.  "Don't move."  She went into the bedroom and closed the door, leaving a small wake of exquisite fragrance.
     Rom sighed and put down his glass.  He got off the sofa and went over to the window. He looked out over the lights of downtown Newark, then across Harrison to Manhattan, and considered again all that had happened to him in the last five days.  What did it add up to? There was a purpose; what was it?
 Who was he?  What had he become?  He didn't really feel like a priest anymore.  Here it was Sunday, and he hadn't even gone to Mass.  Religion had been his rock, and now it had melted.  The church seemed like a big, stuffy old house he'd left years ago.  There was only this dangerous, unpredictable life he now led.  It was like being a kid again, really.  Only now he was older, and everything meant so much more.  He was out in the world again, in a big way, and he loved it.  But why had it taken a fatal virus to re-admit him to that world?  What a waste.  Well, his Zorro act was over.  What now?
     "May we have a drum roll, please?"  Cassandra's voice came from behind the bedroom door.  Rom turned around just as it opened.  His jaw dropped.  Out came Cassandra, wearing the smallest bikini he'd ever seen.  "It's this year's model," she said.  "What do you think?"  She did a quick full turn and struck a model's pose against the doorway.
     Rom stood by the window speechless.  He blinked and cleared his throat.  "Uh..."
     Cassandra laughed.  "I have shocked you, haven't I?"
     Rom grinned stupidly.  "Well, yes, you have.  But the shock is not unpleasant."
     Cassandra moved into the room and bent down to pick up her glass.  Her smallish but firm breasts strained the black-and-yellow fabric of her bikini top, and Rom could see that her nipples were hard.  She straightened up and moved a few steps closer.  "Well, do you like it?" She turned around again, more slowly.  Rom drank in her long legs.  He gazed directly at her pert, well-shaped ass, nearly all of which was exposed.  His eyes wandered up her smooth stomach to her lovely shoulders.  She drank again and put the glass down.  She put her hands on her hips.  "Well?"
     Her eyes were gleaming, telling him something.  He moved toward her.  "Cassandra. You are so beautiful."
     She turned again.  "You don't think it's too much?"
     "Certainly not too much material!"
     They both laughed nervously.  Cassandra blushed.  "Thanks.  Maybe I shouldn't have, uh, shocked you so much, huh?"
     Rom's head swam.  Her perfume, her nearness, was driving him mad.  He could feel her body heat.
 "I should go change," she said.  She didn't move.
     "Don't."  His palms were moist and his ears rang softly.  They looked at each other, and a veil between them fell.  Now she was in his arms, and he was kissing her, first gently, then deeply.  He ran one hand down her back and over her soft, round ass.  She kissed his neck and ground her pelvis into his.
 Wordlessly she lifted his sweatshirt over his head, then his undershirt, and he untied her top and dropped it to the floor.  She stood on tiptoe and pressed against him, mashing her breasts against his muscular chest, grabbing his ass and squeezing it.
     "Oh Rom, I've waited so long," she moaned.  "Love me, love me."  She pulled him down to the rug and lay on top of him, straddling him, her soft, fragrant hair caressing his neck and face.  She raised herself on her elbows and kissed him hungrily.  Rom reached for her breasts and softly kneaded them.  Cassandra moaned again, louder.
     She sat up, still straddling him, and undid his belt.  She fumbled with his buttons but soon had them all undone.  She stroked him through his briefs for a moment, and now Rom moaned, eyes closed, rolling his head slowly back and forth on the rug.
     She reached into the waistband of his briefs and put her cool hand around him.
     "Cassandra, no, no," croaked Rom.
     "Yes, baby, yes, yes. Let me."  She slid back and lowered her head.
     With a superhuman effort Rom reached down, grabbed her shoulders and pulled her up to face him.  "Cassandra, I can't.  Please."
     "It's OK."  She kissed him again, hungrily.  "Love me, Rom. Love me."
     Rom rolled her off him, breaking the clinch, and sat up, still completely aroused.  He shook his head to clear it.  Cassandra lay on the rug, panting.  She began sliding her bikini bottom down.  Rom saw the smooth abdomen, the short black hairs coming into view.  He summoned his strength, what was left.  He leapt up and rushed to the bathroom.  In a moment the shower came on.
     Cassandra sat up, her bikini bottom around one ankle, stunned.  She raised her knees, clasped her arms around them and put her head down.
     "Shit!" she said.