right for a dried-up maiden aunt, but definitely not for a pretty lady like yourself."
  Nora wanted to criticize his impertinence, wanted to tell him to shut up and fix the 
television, but she had no experience at standing up for herself. Aunt Violet had 
preferred her meek, obedient.
  Streck was smiling at her. The right corner of his mouth curled in a most unpleasant 
way. It was almost a sneer.
  She forced herself to say, "I like it well enough."
  "Not really?"
  "Yes."
  He shrugged. "What's the matter with the set?"
  "The picture won't stop rolling. And there's static, snow."
  He pulled the television away from the wall, switched it on, and studied the tumbling, 
static-slashed images. He plugged in a small portable lamp and hooked it to the back of 
the set.
  The grandfather clock in the hall marked the quarter-hour with a single chime that 
reverberated hollowly through the house.
  "You watch a lot of TV?" he asked as he unscrewed the dust shield from the set.
  "Not much," Nora said.
  "I like those nighttime soaps. Dallas, Dynasty, that stuff."
  "I never watch them."
  "Yeah? Oh, now, come on, I bet you do." He laughed slyly. "Everybody watches 'em, even 
if they don't want to admit it. Just isn't anything more interesting than stories full of 
backstabbing, scheming, thieving, lying . . . and adultery. You know what I'm saying? 
People sit and watch it and cluck their tongues and say, 'Oh, how awful,' but they really 
get off on it. That's human nature."
  "I . . . I've got things to do in the kitchen," she said nervously. "Call me when 
you've fixed the set." She left the room and went down the hall through the swinging door 
into the kitchen.
  She was trembling. She despised herself for her weakness, for the ease with which she 
surrendered to fear, but she could not help being what she was. A mouse.
  Aunt Violet had often said, "Girl, there are two kinds of people in the world-cats and 
mice. Cats go where they want, do what they want, take what they want. Cats are 
aggressive and self-sufficient by nature. Mice, on the other hand, don't have an ounce of 
aggression in them. They're naturally vulnerable, gentle, and timid, and they're happiest 
when they keep their heads down and accept what life gives them. You're a mouse, dear. 
It's not bad to be a mouse. You can be perfectly happy. A mouse might not have as 
colorful a life as a cat, but if it stays safely in its burrow and keeps to itself, it'll 
live longer than the cat, and it'll have a lot less turmoil in its life."
  Right now, a cat lurked in the living room, fixing the TV set, and Nora was in the 
kitchen, gripped by mouselike fear. She was not actually in the middle of cooking 
anything, as she had told Streck. For a moment she stood by the sink, one cold hand 
clasped in the other-her hands always seemed to be cold-wondering what to do until he 
finished his work and left. She decided to bake a cake. A yellow cake with chocolate 
icing. That task would keep her occupied and help turn her mind away from the memory of 
Streck's suggestive winking.
  She got bowls, utensils, an electric mixer, plus the cake mix and other ingredients out 
of the cupboards, and she set to work. Soon her frayed nerves were soothed by the mundane 
domestic activity.
  Just as she finished pouring the batter into the two baking pans, Streck stepped into 
the kitchen and said, "You like to cook?"
  Surprised, she nearly dropped the empty metal mixing bowl and the battersmeared 
spatula. Somehow, she managed to hold on to them and-with only a little clatter to betray 
her tension-put them into the sink to be washed. "Yes. I like to cook."
  "Isn't that nice? I admire a woman who enjoys doing woman's work. Do You sew, crochet, 
do embroidery, anything like that?"
  "Needlepoint," she said.
  "That's even nicer."
  "Is the TV fixed?"
  "Almost."
  Nora was ready to put the cake in the oven, but she did not want to carry
  the pans while Streck was watching her because she was afraid she would shake too much. 
Then he'd realize that she was intimidated by him, and he would probably get bolder. So 
she left the full pans on the counter and tore open the box of icing mix instead.
  Streck came farther into the big kitchen, moving casually, very relaxed, looking around 
with an amiable smile, but coming straight toward her. "Think I could have a glass of 
water?"
  Nora almost sighed with relief, eager to believe that a drink of cold water was all 
that had brought him here. "Oh, yes, of course," she said. She took a glass from the 
cupboard, ran the cold water.
  When she turned to hand it to him, he was standing close behind her, having crept up 
with catlike quiet. She gave an involuntary start. Water slopped out of the glass and 
splattered on the floor.
  She said, "You-"
  "Here," he said, taking the glass from her hand.
  "-startled me."
  "Me?" he said, smiling, fixing her with icy blue eyes. "Oh, I certainly didn't mean to. 
I'm sorry. I'm harmless, Mrs. Devon. Really, I am. All I want is a drink of water. You 
didn't think I wanted anything else-did you?"
  He was so damned bold. She couldn't believe how bold he was, how smart-mouthed and cool 
and aggressive. She wanted to slap his face, but she was afraid of what would happen 
after that. Slapping him-in any way acknowledging his insulting double entendres or other 
offenses-seemed sure to encourage rather than deter him.
  He stared at her with unsettling intensity, voraciously. His smile was that of a 
predator.
  She sensed the best way to handle Streck was to pretend innocence and monumental thick 
headedness, to ignore his nasty sexual innuendos as if she had not understood them. She 
must, in short, deal with him as a mouse might deal with any threat from which it was 
unable to flee. Pretend you do not see the cat, pretend that it is not there, and perhaps 
the cat will be confused and disappointed by the lack of reaction and will seek more 
responsive prey elsewhere.
  To break away from his demanding gaze, Nora tore a couple of paper towels from the 
dispenser beside the sink and began to mop up the water she had spilled on the floor. But 
the moment she stooped before Streck, she realized she'd made a mistake, because he did 
not move out of her way but stood over her, loomed over her, while she squatted in front 
of him. The situation was full of erotic symbolism. When she realized the submissiveness 
implied by her position at his feet, she popped up again and saw that his smile had 
broadened.
  Flushed and flustered, Nora threw the damp towels into the waste can under the sink.
  Art Streck said, "Cooking, needlepoint . . . yeah, I think that's real nice, real nice. 
What other things do you like to do?"