Are the frothy, sudsy ripples tidal waves or breakers? Raymond couldn't decide, only accepting that the pink mound in the steaming sea was too small to be an island, too perfect to be anything but a leg. Perfect. The black-haired girl, this was her word though she didn't know it. Raymond wished she would listen to him when he called those parts of her perfect. A perfect leg, a perfect streak of wet hair tucked behind her perfect ear, a perfect bead of water cutting an imperfect road on its way down her perfect back. Are crooked roads imperfect? Who wants to walk down a straight one? Who doesn't want to drive down one? But she wouldn't listen. She'd only stare at the silver faucet, curving like a curious worm with propellers on its sides reading Chaud and Froid.
The wealthy like altitude. This Raymond decided when the concierge directed him to K1, the restaurant on the hotel's 35th floor, directed him with a-- No, no. Not though there. Not to Gabby's. That is the first floor restaurant. You have no table there. You don't have a reservation. The elevator is that way."-- and patted him twice on the back as he advanced. K1 was an intimate space, all Shoji screens in an open room with candles everywhere. They melted in little bowls on the tables, dangled from the ceiling in sticks bound with steel wire, flickered on branches jutting from the walls. Raymond's table was in a corner by the window. He was the last one to arrive.
"That's really not necessary," he said. His companion acted as if he hadn't heard. One more vodka and cranberry, though Raymond hadn't asked even once for a vodka and cranberry, appeared in front of him and out of courtesy, he drank it.