I missed him coming to the bar each night; at least I missed his nineteen-dollar tips. Things went on I suppose for two or three weeks, into the early fall. It was the tail end of September by then, and I’d switched back from my summer hot pants to the velveteen trunks and pantyhose, which I’d just gotten on one afternoon when the bell rang, and when I opened the door it was Tom. I hadn’t seen him since that night, and no doubt acted cool. “… Oh?” I said. “Tom? What can I do for you?” “Joan,” he half stammered, “I have to talk to you.” “What about?” “I think you know, and I won’t enjoy it, I promise you. Just the same, I won’t talk on your doorstep.” “Then—come in, please.” I brought him into the living room, and asked him: “How would I know what you’ve come about?” “You haven’t seen this?” I noticed for the first time he had a paper under his arm, which he unrolled and waved around. “I don’t take the afternoon paper,” I told him.
