We were in the living room, and Jean stood near the tall front windows.
She had changed to a suit of some soft blue material.
"As soon as I get the money," I said, "we're going out for some fun,
aren't we? I owe you for a beef barbecue."
"You don't owe me anything," she said. She didn't look at me.
"You'll get over him," I said.
"Him--?" She turned to look at me curiously.
"That man you're in love with, that man you told me about last night."
"Oh," she said. "Oh. I was drunk last night, Fred. I'm not in love."
Silence. That attraction of hers pulling at me like some localized
gravity, silence, and the beating of my heart. Silence, my hands
trembling, my knees aching.
"I'd like to see some fights," I said. "Would you like to?"
She frowned. "Not particularly." She stared at me, shook her head, and
looked away.
"Well," I said, "I haven't finished the want ads."
"Of course," she said. "Get right back to them, Freddy. You never know
when you'll find a bargain."
They weren't very interesting. I kept seeing her standing next to the
window, looking unhappy, frustrated, somehow. I kept seeing the soft
fabric of the suit clinging to her beautiful body and the proud grace of
her posture.
I went back to the house, and she was sitting on the davenport near the
fireplace. She looked up without expression.