Bloom:  A man’s touch.  Sad music.  Church music.  Perhaps here.

(Zoe Higgins, A young whore in A sapphire slip, closed with three bronze
buckles, A slim black Velvet fillet round her throat, nods, trips down
the steps and accosts him.)

Zoe:  Are you looking for someone?  He’s inside with his friend.

Bloom:  Is this Mrs Mack’s?

Zoe:  No, eightyone.  Mrs Cohen’s.  You might go farther and fare worse.  Mother Slipperslapper. (Familiarly) She’s on the job herself tonight with the vet her tipster that gives her all the winners and pays for her son in Oxford.  Working overtime but her luck’s turned today. (Suspiciously) You’re not his father, are you?

Bloom:  Not I!

Zoe:  You both in black.  Has little mousey any tickles tonight?

(His skin, alert, feels her fingertips approach.  A hand glides over his
left thigh.)

Zoe:  How’s the nuts?

Bloom:  Off side.  Curiously they are on the right.  Heavier, I suppose.  One in a million my tailor, Mesias, says.

Zoe:  (In sudden alarm) You’ve a hard chancre.

Bloom:  Not likely.

Zoe:  I feel it.

(Her hand slides into his left trouser pocket and brings out A hard black
shrivelled potato.  She regards it and bloom with dumb moist lips.)

Bloom:  A talisman.  Heirloom.

Zoe:  For Zoe?  For keeps?  For being so nice, eh?

(She puts the potato greedily into A pocket then links his arm, cuddling
him with supple warmth.  He smiles uneasily.  Slowly, note by note,
oriental music is played. He gazes in the tawny crystal of her eyes,
ringed with KOHOL.  His smile softens.)

Zoe:  You’ll know me the next time.

Bloom:  (Forlornly) I never loved a dear gazelle but it was sure to ...