"Suppose _a girl_ did?" She looked at me intently.
It was an idea that had never crossed my mind. I thought it
over. "Scram," I repeated. "There's pain enough in life--even in
loving--without asking for more."
Gwen's eyebrows went up. "It's another thing I can't feel, either." She
gestured with her hand, pushing the idea away from herself.
She'd finished her highball long since. She made another, now--a
stronger one. I didn't want any more Coca-Cola at the moment--any more
anything. Any more her, even.
And that shocked me.
What had the sensation come from?
From her most recent confession?
No. It was familiar--undistressing in that connotation--a known,
acknowledged, assimilated phenomenon, like any other biological datum
of birds, bees, flowers, our earth. Nothing surprising at all.
It went back to the question "Why?": To Loneliness, Beauty and Fun and
all that.
The truth was, I had been unwilling, once again, to face the night
unsleepy and alone. I didn't want a girl; this one, or any one, except
Ricky.
But the not-wanting of solitude was the greater negative.
She'd turned to another radio station and found a slow rumba. She drank
deeply--standing--and moving her hips in tempo.
"Come on," she said.
Unwillingly, and unwilling to protest the heat of the night, I began to
dance with her. She was, as Hattie had promised, very good.
I thought that presently I would stop this and send her home. It would
be awkward.
And then, as the music quickened and we made a spot turn in the center
of the room, I saw through the doors to the doors beyond--the doors
that led to Yvonne's room. Mine was no longer flatly parallel with the
wall.