The Dice Man by Luke Rhinehart Page A

with a glass of Scotch and with a wide-eyed stare: representing awe, fright or blindness from being without her glasses. After handing me the Scotch (Lil was upstairs still dressing), Arlene fled to the other side of the room. I drifted over to a small group of psychiatrists led by Jake and listened to a consecutive series of monologues on methods of avoiding income taxes.
    Depressed, I drifted after Arlene, poetry poised like cookie crumbs on my lips. She was yo-yoing from the kitchen-bar to her guests, smiling bigly and blankly, and then rushing away in someone's midsentence on the presumed pretense of getting someone a drink. I'd never seen her so manic. When I finally followed her into the kitchen one time she was staring at a picture of the Empire State Budding, or rather at the calendar beneath it with all the banking holidays squared in orange.
    She turned and looked at me with the same wide-eyed awe, fear or blindness and asked in a frightening loud, nervous voice `What if I'm pregnant?'
    'Shhhh,' I replied.
    `If I'm pregnant, Jake will never forgive me.'
    `But I thought you took the pill every morning.'
    `Jake tells me to but for the last two years, I've substituted little vitamin C tablets in my calendar clock.'
    `Oh my God, when, when... Do you think you're pregnant?'
    `Jake'll know I cheated on him and didn't take the pill.'
    'But he'll think he's the father?'
    `Of course, who else could be?'
    `Well ... uh...'
    'But you know how he detests the thought of having children.'
    'Yes I do. Arlene...'
    `Excuse me, I've got to serve drinks.' She ran out with two martinis and returned with an empty highball glass.
    `Don't you dare to touch me again,' she said as she began preparing another drink.
    `Ah, Arlene, how can you say that? My love is like . . .'
    `This Tuesday, Jake is going to spend all day at the Library annex working on his new book. If you dare try anything like last night I'll phone the police.'
    'Arlene . . .'
    `I've checked their number and I plan to always keep the phone near me.'
    'Arlene, the feelings I have for you are...'
    `Although I told Lil yesterday that I'm going to Westchester to see my Aunt Miriam.' She was off again with a full whiskey and two pieces of chewed celery, and before she returned again Lil had arrived and I was trapped in an infinite analysis with a man named Sidney Opt of the effect of the Beatles on American culture. It was the closest I came to poetry that night. I didn't even talk to Arlene again until, well, that Tuesday afternoon.
    'Arlene,' I said, trying to rope in a scream as she pressed the door convincingly against my foot, `you must let me in.'
    'No,' she said.
    `If you don't let me in I won't tell you what I plan to do.'
    'Plan to do?'
    `You'll never know what I'm going to say.'
    There was a long pause and then the door eased open and I limped into her apartment. She retreated decisively to the telephone and, standing stiffly with the receiver in her hand with one finger inserted into presumably the first digit, she said `Don't come any nearer.'
    `I won't, I won't. But you really should hang up the phone.'
    'Absolutely not.'
    `If you keep it off the hook too long they'll disconnect the phone.'
    Hesitantly she replaced the receiver and sat at one end of the couch (next to the telephone); I seated myself at the other end. - After looking at me blankly for a few minutes (I was preparing my declaration of Platonic love), she suddenly began crying into her hands.
    `I can't stop yon,' she moaned.
    `I'm not trying to do anything!'
    'I can't stop you, I know I can't. I'm weak.'
    'But I won't touch you.'
    `You're too strong, too forceful...'
    'I won't touch you.'
    'She looked up.
    `You won't?'
    'Arlene, I love you..-.'
    `I knew it! Oh and I'm so weak.'
    `I love you in a way beyond words.'
    `You evil man.'
    'But I have decided [I had become tight-upped with annoyance at her] that our love must always be Platonic.' She looked at me with narrowed, resentful eyes: I suppose that it