“She can tell me if she doesn’t like it.”
“And she’s never said anything?”
“No.”
“Then it’s her problem.”
“Exactly.”
“And do I fall into the same category?”
She smiled brightly. “Yes.”
“Nice to know where I fit in.”
“Where do you fit in?” she said.
“Do you mean that philosophically or practically?”
“Either way.”
“I’m more or less just passing through, so I guess I really don’t fit in.”
“Do you mean that philosophically or practically?”
“Either way. Did Jill say anything about me?”
Susan looked at me through slitted eyes, as if deciding how much to tell. At last she said, “Jill seemed quite taken with you at first, especially when you sent her flowers.”
“At first?”
“Well, it’s been, what, a week? And you haven’t called.”
“Has it been a week already? How time flies. Well, has she waited for me, breathlessly, anxiously, sitting by the phone and staring out the window?”
Susan laughed. “Hardly.”
I pretended dismay. “Don’t tell me she has another man already?”
“I’m not certain.” She smiled wickedly. “Well, there is this gentleman who’s called on her a couple of times in the last week.”
“Ah!” I said. “A rival! Who is he?”
“His name is Don something.”
“Swaggart? The sociologist? She’s been seeing him?”
“As I said, just once or twice. Does that bother you?”
“I am beside myself with jealousy.”
She laughed again. “I can tell.”
“How well do you know the dear boy?”
She made a noncommittal gesture. “Well enough to know that there’s not a lot of substance to him.”
“But,” I said, “he’s very dedicated to his work.”
“Is he?”
We walked a little more. We occasionally passed people. She said, “That’s what you get for not striking while the iron is hot.”
“That’s what she gets for being impatient. Let it be a lesson to you.”
“Oh, she’s not nearly as impatient as I am. Once I got so annoyed waiting for my bus, that I got on the next one that came by, just to be going somewhere.”
I laughed.
She said, “Are you going to do anything about Don?”
“What do you propose I do?”
“I was just wondering.”
“To be perfectly frank, I don’t much care one way or the other,” I said.
We arrived at an all-night coffee place called the Wholly Ground. There didn’t seem to be anyone in it. I stood in the doorway and asked if they were open, but Susan breezed in. A poster outside advertised the appearance of something called the Beat Farmers, but the place didn’t seem to have a stage. I had just noticed that the poster was for somewhere else when Susan motioned me in. “They’re open all night,” she said, at the same time as the short-haired nose-ringed girl behind the counter nodded. It was a small place that smelled harshly of coffee and rank tobacco smoke. All the tables were round and most had room for four coffee cups and an ashtray; you had to hold your morning paper.
I bought us a pot of coffee for three dollars while Susan fetched cups. “Do you use cream?” she said.
“Black like my heart.”
She smiled all over her face and said, “How wonderful. I believe we shall get along splendidly.”
We sat near a window where we could watch passersby. I filled her cup, left mine half empty. Or half full, if you want to join the Peace Corps. She looked a question. “Keeps me awake,” I said.
“They serve unleaded.”
“Never touch the stuff.”
I brought the cup to my lips. “It also cools faster this way.”
“You don’t like it hot?”
“Lukewarm like my heart,” I said.
She laughed. Her laugh was merry and seemed contrived like her speech and other mannerisms; yet, like her speech and mannerisms, not unpleasantly so.
“Tell me about the city,” I said.
“It is a city like other cities,” she said at once. “Only not so big.”
“How big is it?”
“Less than half a million people, and not very spread out.”
“What do people do here?”
“Live. Die. Breed.”
“Sing? Dance?”
“Music is life, and life is dance, as Vivian used to say.”
“Who’s Vivian?”
“A friend.”
“Where are you from?”
“New York, New York,” she sang.
“I just came from there.”
“Where?”
“I was living on Staten Island for a while.”
“And before that?”
“Ah, my dear, London, Paris, Istanbul, Tokyo.”
“Tokyo? Really?”
“I didn’t like it.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t speak Japanese.”
“Oh. Yes, that would be a problem. What languages do you speak?”
“The language of love. And you?”
“The language of dance, of song. Tra-la, tra-la.”
“But are you understood?”
“Sometimes I am. Are you?”
“Oh, my, yes. Always.”
“I believe that, Jonathan.”
I poured her some more coffee, warmed mine up a bit. I stared out the window. “Is winter fog usual around here?”
“It happens,” she said. “But there isn’t any fog tonight.”
“No, but there will be.”
“Do you think so? I like the fog.”
“And thunderstorms.”
“Yes. Especially thunderstorms. They’re my favorite part of living in the Midwest; that and the clouds. How do you know there will be fog tonight?”
