The perverts, who daily were legion, mingled freely among the crowds: well seasoned war horses and nervous neophytes eyed well-formed boys. He recognized them all, not on a personal level, since he felt above the meritricious; but he played a little devining game-he's one; he's not one; here's another-and since he felt that it took one to know one, he thought he was seldom wrong.

The culinary smells from Angelo's enticed him to the window where a big, brown pig revolved over a fire. The pig held an apple in its mouth and it looked so real that it made him hungry. He hadn't eaten since early that morning when he had made himself and Blanchard a sandwich; that was before the fight. He had just enough for a pastrami and coffee at the lunch counter near the Newsreel Theatre. He quickened his pace.

A crowd was gathered on the sidewalk near the lunch counter, watching an elderly Negro woman whose arms were stretched upward and from whose mouth emanated shouts and cries of anguish. The woman was in agony, and the crowd watched her helplessly. Someone said, "Get a cop." A lady, shaken by the sight, hurried away. Two teenaged girls giggled nervously, apologetically. The rest of the people stood by looking embarrassed. The crowd dispersed gradually and the woman ceased her cries. The woman looked about as if seeking the approval of her diminishing audience, then she crept away. In a moment it was as if nothing had occurred, except he alone remained there, petrified, blocking traffic, no longer hungry.

He was sprawled on his bed. There was a melancholy smile on his lips as he dreamt of Blanchard. You big, gorgeous blond, he thought. I loved you so much. I loved the way your yellow hair turns brownish when you're out in the sun too long. Even your eyebrows turn brown. Even those long eyelashes that guard the two most prefect blue eyes in the world.

He lit a cigarette and paced up and down the room.

It was in the earliest hours of that morning that with his fingers and his mouth and his tongue he had explored Blanchard's body. "You know what," he had asked. "You taste good."

And now there was nothing. Something inside him kept eating away. Just germs, he smiled. They'll keep chewing until I come apart.

The radio in the next room played jazz. The tenor saxaphone blew mournful tones; it hit a high note and held it for a long time. It penetrated through the wall and it made him want to cry. It was like the cries of the poor, beat up, old hag shouting in the street.

When a man has cancer, he employs qualified surgeons with sharp knives to cut it out. Love can be like that-like cancer. It can pain and strangle you to death.

"Go to doctor," Blanchard had demanded. "Maybe it's not too late. I can't, I mean I won't do this with you anymore. I want to help you because I love you. But I love you in another way. I won't do this thing with you again. I might become like, like-you!"

I should feel like getting drunk, he thought. I should feel like dying, but I don't. There's no hurt even, just a sort of disappointment. Like that lady shouting, it was real, but afterwards it was as if nothing had happened.

I'll get drunk tonight anyway.

He decided to shower.

He'd go out tonight.

Maybe he'd make a pick up.

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