She said, "Oh" and went back to tracing the design. I thought her finger
trembled.
A very dim smile on her face, and she didn't look away from the table
top. "You've been--picked up before, undoubtedly."
"No. What kind of talk is this, Jean?"
Now, she looked up. "Crazy talk. You're no New Yorker, Freddy lad.
You're a Middle Westerner; you can't fool me. Fresh from the farm and
craving cow's milk."
"I never saw a cow in my life," I told her truthfully, "though I've
heard about them. What makes you think I'm from a farm?"
"Your freshness, your complexion and--everything about you."
The waitress brought our food, then, and I didn't answer. I tried to
keep my eyes away from Jean as I ate; I had a mission, here, and no time
for attachments beyond the casual. I was sure, even then, that loving
Jean Decker would never qualify as casual.
She drank her coffee and smoked; I ate.
She asked, "Where are you staying, in town, Fred? I'm sober enough to
drive, now."
"I'll get public transportation," I said. "You get home, and to bed."
She laughed. "Public transportation? Freddy, you don't know this town.
There isn't any. Did you just get here, tonight?"