THE FOX AND THE GRAPe
653
J. J.
took another sip of beer to compose himself, afraid he
might show his nervousness by stammering. Then he said, "Sure,"
in a loud, metallic voice, that he did not feel belonged to him.
The girl got up and sat down opposite
J. J.
at his table. Her
eyes ran over him, as she tried to size him up. But
J.
J.
could not
get a clear picture of her
j
he was too agitated and too busy trying
to figure out how to behave.
"What would you like to drink?"
J. J.
asked, fumbling for an
opening.
"A long beer," she said. "Too hot for whisky. Too hot for a
bitch in heat. I don't know why anybody stays in this goddamned
town in summer."
"I guess people have to work. Only the rich can get away,"
he said, satisfied he knew the answer to that one.
J.
J.
looked at her again, now noticing her tight black skirt and
white blouse with a high sheen that held her like a pillowcase. Her
face was chunky, but it was lifted by a steep, full forehead, rounded
off by her thick blond hair sleekly drawn back.
"What are you," she asked, "a salesman?"
"No, I'm a writer."
"What kind of writer-mysteries?"
"No, magazine articles. I'm working on a novel."
"Let's listen to that song. It's my favorite. Cools you off in the
summer and warms you up in the winter. In the spring you don't
need music."
She closed her eyes, and began to hum and sway with the song,
thrusting her chest out when the beat was stronger or the voice
louder.
Then they ordered another beer, and sat for a few minutes with–
out talking.
J. J.
wanted to find out more about her but he did not
know what to say.
When they finished their beer, she began to fidget. "Let's get
out of this hole," she said.
"Where shall we go?" he asked when they got outside.
"Do you want to come to my room?" she said. "It's next block."
"Well, I don't know, maybe," he stammered.
"What's the matter with you?" she said. "Are you a jerk or
something? What do you want? Don't you like me? Feel me, don't
