Erin was beginning to decide it didn't matter. She was too in love to care if Sara spent most afternoons leaning over the narrow space of Roger's desk, crushing him to a pulp with a viciousness born of brilliance and an arrogance she had once found entirely off-putting. The unease that had kept her lingering in the corridor the first time she had heard Sara's voice slip from its smooth, cultured casing and smack, unchecked, against the frosted glass panes of Roger's over-sized office — the reflexive nick of protectiveness she had felt for poor Roger with his asthma inhaler and his failed marriage and his hot-cold streaks, mostly cold lately, though not yet indicative of low overall worth — had quietly, mysteriously disappeared. In its place, a sadistic (or was it now masochistic?) bent, also disturbing, but every day less so: she had begun to think only of Sara, pissed off and jagged, and how much she wanted to fuck that particular version of her. Things had gotten so bad that, at the first sign of fallout, she would pass Roger's office nearly five times in as many minutes, a routine voyeur aching for glimpses of pressed pantsuit and sleek up-do. Sometimes Sara caught up with her after, smirking knowingly, and Erin, who had once thought of saying something vaguely condemning, could only focus on lips and teeth and the cool brush of Sara's fingertips at the base of her neck.
The agent put the manuscript down. "It's a little different from your other stuff, Thomas. So. They're lesbians, then?"
"Well, that's not really the--"
"Interesting. Interesting. Do they explore the sensual mystery of each other's--"
"That's not-- I mean, it's more metaphorical. It's about--"
"Pictures? This isn't--" Pynchon shook his head. Penguin's merger with Penthouse wasn't going well.
"This could make a truckload of money."
On the other hand, maybe he could get some pictures.
Opening: hepkath.....Continuation: Anon.