can't afford it."
"Love makes all things possible."
Lily doubted that, but she said nothing.
"I wonder what kind of men go out on a Monday night?"
Marja smirked. "Gourmet cooks. Don't fancy restaurants
close on Mondays?"
Lily set her spex on the kitchen table, mirror side
down, so she wouldn't accidentally catch a glimpse of
herself goofing off. "Weekend weathermen," she said.
"Priests cutting loose after a long Sunday. I need to
study tonight, and so do you." She got up to stretch her
legs, but of course there was no room. She and Marja had
squeezed into an efficiency apartment off campus and
their stuff filled the place to overflowing. Two yard
sale dressers, two futons, a MedNet node, a whiny
refrigerator, a microwave on the kitchen table, two
plastic chairs. They had to wash dishes in the bathroom,
which had once been a closet. The closet was a
clothesline stretched across the west wall. When the
place was picked up she could take four, maybe five
steps without bumping into something, but at the moment
piles of hardcopy booby-trapped the floor like paper
banana peels. There was a word for their lifestyle, she
realized. Squalor.
"How long have we known each other?" said Marja. "Almost
two years and you haven't even breathed on a man.
They're not all Glenns, you know. Look, we can fall in
and out of love and still be back in plenty of time to
weigh old Freddy's nonexistant spleen."
Lily picked up her spex again and held them at arm's
length. From a distance the bright little images on the
displays looked like a pair of shirt buttons. Had it
really been two years? Maybe it was time to unbutton
herself.
A private security rover patrolled Densmore Street; the
servos of its infrared lenses mewled softly as it wove
through the twilight. Most of the stores on the block
were just closing: La Parfumerie, Hawkins Fine Wines, a
World Food boutique and a couple of art galleries. Next
to the Hothouse was the Office Restaurant. Through its
windows Lily could see people in gray suits sitting
alone at stylized desks, eating absently as they tweaked
glowing blue spreadsheets. The neighborhood reeked of
money and there was only fifty-three dollars and sixty
seven cents left on her cash card. She wondered how much
romance that would buy in the caviar part of town.
At street level the Hothouse was as stolid as a bank:
two stories of granite blocks regularly pierced by thin,
dark windows. Higher up, it blossomed into a crystalline
