The Woman Aroused

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     “For a character making a hundred and twenty-five per, not to mention what you win on the horses, you're always broke. Very odd.”

     I could have said something nasty about the scatter pins she was wearing, my “make-up gift,” being half a week's salary, but I walked on. When I looked back, Flo had gone into the dingy coffee pot. I went in, too.

     There was the usual smell of many foods, and the short, swarthy counterman with tired eyes behind the cash register, reading a morning paper. At the other end of the counter a shabby old drunk was sipping coffee. There were no tables so we sat on stools, and Flo's shoes and horrible coat which she thought were the latest style (and probably were) looked so out of place, I felt irritated as hell. We ordered two light coffees and Flo took some cake. She took out cigarettes and gave me one. We sat there and smoked and she tried to make conversation by saying what a waste of time movies were these days, but I was too annoyed to chatter.

     The cup looked clean but the coffee was crummy. The drunk suddenly put a nickel in the juke box—which surprised me as he didn't look as if he could afford a nickel—and played Old Black Magic—one of Flo's favorites. She smiled, said, “See, almost like a night club. That's a terrific number—hope they're reviving that song.”

     I sipped the bad coffee and kept still. It was a good song, I often danced to it, pirouetting on that “down and down we go...” part. I went back to figuring how we'd walk to the house on 74th Street so that if one newsstand was closed, we'd pass another. General George mapping his campaign. I love reading in bed Sunday mornings; sometimes I can even read through the entire Sunday Times before I get up.

     When Flo finished her coffee I stood up and the counterman said, “Twenty cents.” I only had twelve cents in change, so I took out my wallet, gave him a bill as Flo said, “Georgie, play Old Black Magic before we go.”

     “It's late,” I told her.

     “But the number does things to me,” she said, taking a nickel from the change in my hand, walking over to the gaudy juke box, a coy sway to her slim hips.

     The counterman gave me eighty cents in change as she came dancing back, holding out her arms, both of us watching her. “Want to dance?”

     “Oh, stop it.”

     She turned to the counterman, “Dance this one with me, handsome?”

     He laughed and the drunk at the end of the counter turned his back on us. Flo began spinning about, her long coat billowing out to show her good legs, even the lace garters on her thighs. She was too much of an exhibitionist to dance well. She's always been like that, thinking more of showing off than the rhythm. When the record was over, she blew a kiss at the counterman—who had been taking in her legs—said, “Sweet dreams, honeyboy,” and made a grand exit onto Lexington Avenue.

     Following her, I said, “Damn it, Flo, why don't you stop being cute, Bohemian, or whatever you think you are? Dancing around in the great tent you call a coat, showing your legs like a seventeen-year-old brat.” I was punching a bit low—Flo was hitting 34 and starting to get sensitive about her years.

     “George, don't be such a stupid snob,” she said, reaching up and pinching my cheek. “The crack about my coat I'll skip, you have absolutely no sense of what's smart. But where's your romance?”

     “Not in a coffee pot!” I said, as she thumbed her nose at me. I was so furious we walked straight home and all the newsstands we passed were closed. When we reached our house—that had been the garage at one time where we kept the Pierce-Arrow and which was now her house—she quickly undressed and lay across the bed, naked, leafing through an issue of Harper's Bazaar. Flo had a long bony, small-breasted figure, ideal for a clothes horse. Her hand- and toe-nails were painted an odd shade of deep red; little islands of color against the whiteness of her smooth skin. For a woman so concerned with clothes, she could shed them with amazing speed.

     I undressed, then stopped abruptly. I took out my wallet, went through my pockets. Flo asked, “What's wrong?” I kept going through my pockets and she said, “Stop screwing up your face. Now what?”

     “Goddamn it, I gave that guy a ten dollar bill and he only gave me eighty cents in change. The bastard!”

     She rested the magazine on her flat stomach. “You sure?”

     “Of course I'm sure. All I had was two tens. Had a feeling in the back of my mind all the time something was wrong, but I was so upset about you making a damn fool of yourself....”

     “No, you don't—you were the dope—don't put it on me. Dress and go back there. He'll remember you.”

     “He'll welcome me with open arms I I'd look like a sap. It's late, he must have plenty of tens in the till. Mark it down as nine bucks lost.”

     “At least call him.”

     “No,” I said, glad she was annoyed now.

     “God, you're always yelling about money—call him!” Flo snapped.

     “Call whom? You remember the name or store number? Let's forget it,” I said, putting on my pajamas.

     “At least try calling. I'll phone,” she said, sitting up.

     “Go to sleep. If you hadn't acted the fool this never...”

     She exploded, her voice shrill as she yelled, “Oh, now it's my fault you're a dummy! Why I!...

     I saw the bust-up coming. I sat on the bed beside her, said gently, “Let's forget it, Flo. It was my fault.”

     “Forget it? It's okay for you to call me a fool, shoot your refined mouth off. But me, if I open.... My God, we argue over everything, even a lousy cup of coffee. Why if we had had a baby, he'd be neurotic with your constant nagging and...”

     “Don't start that baby routine. Wasn't my fault we never had a child.”

     “I suppose it was mine!!! she said, her sharp face contorted as the tears came.

     I put my arms around her. “Look, darling, forget it. We're trying to make a go of...”

     She broke out of my arms, jumped off the bed, screamed, “Some chance of making a go of anything, if a lousy five-cent cup of coffee, if nine bucks, can start this!”

     “Let me tell you something,” I said, my voice rising. “If you'd only stop being the big career woman, if we had a real home, regular meals, we wouldn't be drinking coffee in some dive. If you could forget trying to be the center of attraction for a few minutes, I could keep my mind on my change. Or if you hadn't showed your legs to the counterman he would...”

     “I like that! Oh I really love that!” Flo yelled, tears making her make-up a mess. “Because you're so smart you can't tell a ten from a one, you place the onus on me! If...”

     “That's the wrong word, you mean blame.”

     “You damn tightwad! If you weren't so cheap, we could have gone to...”

     “Sure I'm tight with money,” I said coldly. “I have to be, you and your big ideas. Flo, the walking Vogue. If you'd only come off your cloud and realize....”

     “You... you writer!”

     I stood up but she moved away from me. I pulled her into my arms, held her while she struggled. “Flo, please, let's cut it, I'm sorry. Please Flo.... I've looked forward so much to having you again.”

     She rested her head on my shoulder, began to bawl. “I didn't want to fight, Georgie, and yesterday was so very good. But we always battle over money—or something. Nine crummy dollars. My mother always said you...”

     “Now wait, this is just between us. I don't care what your mother said or...”

     Flo pushed me away. Her face was a wet mess. “Well, George Jackson, the high-society lad! My mother... and you, the smug son of the toilet-seat king!”

     I couldn't resist saying, “Sure, a plumber who made an honest living. Which is something nobody in your four-flushing family ever did. There isn't a one of them worth a damn except your brother Eddie and...”

     “That's right, stick up for that... that... bum!” Flo sobbed. “You encourage him in his crazy ideas.”

     “For God's sake stop talking about the kid like that, wounded and...'

     She fell on the bed, sobbing hysterically. I stood there, waiting for her to quiet down. She stuffed the top of my blue satin sheet in her mouth, making pitiful muffled sounds—and smearing lipstick on the sheet. I said, “I'm sorry, Flo. I swear I'm sorry.” I don't think she even heard me. I always ended up saying I was sorry.

     I stood there for a few minutes, looking down at her, sorry the way things were going, and even more sorry in a vague sort of way I was mixed up in somebody else's troubles and complexes. But when Flo got up and began to dress, I felt sick. She said in a normal voice, “Georgie, what's wrong with us? We always battle over something, something petty. Nine bucks... guess our marriage is only worth nine bucks, and no bargain at that.”

     “Look, Flo honey, it's only been two days. Give us more time...”

     “No use, we both know it. This time we're really through.”

     “We've been really through so many times,” I said.

     She shook her head sadly. “This time I mean it.”

     She went to the bathroom, washed her face, repainted it, and within a few minutes she was gone and the place was full of a haunting empty silence.

     It was exactly twenty after two a.m. and we had been “together” since Friday night. I poured myself a drink, tuned in one of the all-night disc jockeys, and sat down. It was the first few minutes after she left me that I always missed Flo most.

     We had been