ABSTRACT
I had seen Bob Palevitz numerous times before, in the lobby, in the courtyard of the Manhattan apartment building in which we both live. However, I really hadn’t taken much notice of him—other than that he appeared to have gentle eyes under his ever-present baseball cap and often carried a large black portfolio case—until one night when I saw him with a gorgeous redhead. Who also happened to be nude. And reclining on a spread of pillows, no less.
