This time, air conditioning was a relief. I sucked in a lungful and Jay
came up.
"Want to sit with Mrs. Prentiss?"
"Sure."
Exactly two days before, she had leaned over the same table, an
immaculate grooming operation--hurt, snooty, aloof, reading her
disguised book. A Cinderella. Avid and anxious--haughty and pretty
hateful--beautiful and not much good. I could say what was different
about her now but it would be difficult to convey the true impression
of that. Her hair, for one thing. It was just neatly combed--just
casual, gold-blonde hair whose owner hadn't taken pains for once, with
every single filament. Her dress. Another plain, costly print--but
the body inside it was relaxed and not subconsciously trying to avoid
creases. It didn't seem to fit quite as perfectly, and yet it suited
her better: it made--would make--anybody, any man, look at the girl
inside and the clothes after--not the other way around. The Musak was
giving out with "Dardanella" and her foot was keeping time under the
table.
"Hello, Yvonne."
She glanced up--from the morning paper.
"'Lo, Phil."
"Want company?"
"Love it." She moved over a little. I came around the table and sat
down.
"You look right sweet this morning. Noon. Whatever it is."
She folded up the paper.