Eight twenty-five. After some neck-ricking soixante-neuf and a short period inside her unsheathed, I clawed at the little pink holder and took its final trojan. — Not to worry, because this is my equivalent of a flash cigarette-case; the real supply is elsewhere.

The condom case was empty, of course, so I looked out the box of Sharpshooters. Who needs it, I thought. You'll be coming blood, if anything.

It, too, was empty.

'Damn. None left.'

'No,' said Rachel. There was one. I saw it this afternoon. There were two there.'

In a voice that could have been my younger brother's, I asked: 'Are you sure ?'

'Positive.'

I turned my back and pretended to fumble in the drawer. 'Ah yes. Here we are. - Whoops! Dropped it in the waste-paper basket! ... damn ...' My fingers curled round the Gloria-moistened trojan, flicked it aside, and burrowed deeper into the pool of tissue, banana skin and cigarette ash, until it found the one used that afternoon on Rachel herself. I have my standards, thank you. Excuse me, but I do have my principles. True, Gloria's would have been nicer, because Rachel's was much dirtier and danker and colder than hers. All the same, that would have been, well, vulgar - and an insult to a fine girl.