It was June 1925 and inside the hosiery shop there was a faint chemical smell and a gray tin fleur-de-lis ceiling and giant fan blades shoving hot air around as a pretty hairdresser friend named Kitty Kaufman flirted with a stocking salesman named Harry Folsom and Harry joined the flirtation with lame jokes and flattery. “Are you girls hungry?” Harry finally asked. Kitty was Jewish and fetching, with hazel eyes and coffee-colored hair combed over to the left like a surge of ocean, and she wore a form-describing silk dress that hinted it could slither off. She was beyond the likes of Harry Folsom but she was ten years married and flattered by his attentions. She gave Ruth a Shall I? glance. Ruth snapped her Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit gum and shrugged. “Hey, you gotta eat,” Harry said. “I guess,” Kitty said. She sought affirmation, but Ruth couldn’t have cared less. She’d inserted a hand inside some fine silk hose that seemed dark as Coca-Cola. She held it up to the full glare of sunlight.
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