she said, taking off her blouse. “Neither have I,” I said, and I made sure that the door to the compartment was securely locked. “What innocents we are,” she sighed, then: “I wish I had a drink.” “I think you’re an alcoholic.” I was very severe because Ellen Rhodes is an alcoholic, or at least well on her way to becoming one: but of course her habits are no concern of mine; we are just playmates of the most casual sort. “I wish you’d call the porter … he could get us something from the club car.” “And have him see us like this? a young man and a young woman enjoying an intimacy without the sanction of either church or state. You’re out of your mind.” Ellen sighed as she unsnapped her brassière. “There are times, Peter, when I suspect you of becoming a solemn bore.” I enjoyed, with my usual misgivings, the sight of her slim nude body. She was a lovely girl, not yet twenty-five, with only one marriage (annulled at seventeen) to her credit. Her hair was a dirty blond, worn long, and her eyebrows and eyelashes were black, naturally black, and the brows arched.
What do You think about Death Before Bedtime (2011)?
