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onto a heap in the corner. Normally he’d leave the laundry at Mary Jane’s. But not as things stood right now.
    For the last two years, they’d lived together at her place most of the time, but Sam had been careful to keep his loft on East Nineteenth Street. It was important to him to have his own space to retreat to, and just as important for Mary Jane to know. It kept their boundaries clear. They were lovers, but he’d never made it a secret that he kept his options open.
    He went to the other side of the loft and hit the flashing button of his answering machine. It whirred, then beeped, then clicked, and then Mary Jane’s voice filled the room. “Not back yet? I hope your flight was okay. I’ve got to go down to Unemployment. In this weather! Call when you get in. I leave at eleven-thirty.” The machine beeped. Sam looked at his watch. Twelve-forty-five. He’d missed her. Just as well. He shook his head. She sounded fine, but still made him uncomfortable. Guilty.
    Because there was the dark side. And it was Mary Jane. Not that she was some femme fatale . Sam had to smile. Oh, he’d had more than his share of those: neurotic, haunted, narcissistic actresses who tortured him. He’d married Shayna when he was only twenty-three and let her torture him for four years. Then he’d been a wild man, but after a year or so of the bar scene he’d found Nora, to drive him equally crazy. Who was more beautiful, Shayna or Nora? Who was more selfish? Impossible to call. After Nora there’d been a string of lithe, perfect women, all with dancer’s bodies, wonderful breasts, lovely lips, and tender, lying eyes. They’d either bored him or driven him crazy. Those were the two modes he’d known.
    Until Mary Jane. At thirty-six, he’d just been beginning to think that he might be a failure, and his last play expressed that. He was Jack: desperate and afraid. Afraid of another soured affair, afraid of another big break that went nowhere, afraid that if this play went down the toilet he wouldn’t have another in him. And in walked Mary Jane. Talented. Oh, more than talented. She took the part; hell, she fuckin’ owned the part of Jill. She made it live. Onstage, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Working with her was so exciting. There wasn’t a nuance that escaped her. And she knew her craft. She could hit the emotional peak, then nail a gag with perfect timing, night after night. She always made it look new, fresh.
    Offstage, of course, she was nothing to look at. He had never taken her down to meet his judgmental parents. He imagined the mother’s eyes giving Mary Jane the once-over. Half Irish, half Jewish, and the worst of each. Sam could imagine his mother’s grimace, followed by the tight smile that would never reach her eyes. Mary Jane would not pass muster.
    But he found that she was someone to talk to. Unlike the beauties, she listened, she responded, she was warm, loving, and always honest. Sam groaned aloud. Yes, she was honest, and he valued honesty and truth, although he couldn’t seem to manage much of either one lately. Jesus Christ, why was life like this? It was some kind of cosmic practical joke: you can’t get what you want without sticking it to someone else.
    Well, once upon a time, three years ago, Mary Jane was what he wanted. He had to keep reminding himself of that. Oh, it might have started as a pity fuck, but she blew him away. She was hot, and right there. She’d bailed him out with her warmth and her performance, and it was so touching to see how much she obviously loved him. He had been moved by her passion, and her gratitude, and when he compared it to the coolness and self-interest of Shayna and Nora and all those pretty, difficult girls that came before, he felt happy for the first time.
    Mary Jane asked for nothing, and she gave him everything. If there was an imbalance in that, he had felt too comfortable to question it. Not that he hadn’t had a few relapses. He’d slept with a