Dirty Snow by Georges Simenon

his fur-lined coat, his big cigar, his air of being—here as everywhere—the principal actor. Without seeming to recognize Frank, he went to the bar and lifted himself onto one of the stools with a sigh of contentment.
    â€œWho’s that?” Sissy asked.
    â€œWhat difference does it make?”
    Why was she instinctively afraid of Kromer? He looked at them, looked at her, especially at her, through the smoke of his cigar, and when she bent her head over her plate he took the opportunity to wink at Frank.
    She started eating mechanically, perhaps out of embarrassment, so as not to meet Kromer’s eyes, and she ate so conscientiously that she left nothing on her plate but the bones. She even ate the fat. She wiped her plate clean with her bread.
    â€œHow old is your father?”
    â€œForty-five. Why?”
    â€œHe looks sixty.”
    He sensed the tears coming to her eyes, which she tried to hold back. He sensed the anger in her struggling with another sentiment, and her desire to leave without a word, to walk out of the restaurant alone, without looking back. Would she even be able to find the exit?
    Kromer, very excited, kept casting glances at Frank that grew more and more significant.
    Then Frank gave a little affirmative nod of his head. The agreement was made.
    So that was that. Too bad!
    â€œThere’s cake with mocha icing.”
    â€œI’m not hungry anymore.”
    â€œBring two mochas, Timo.”
    At that moment, Holst was driving his streetcar. The big headlamps could have been part of him, shining out of his belly, as the car pushed forward, casting a puddle of light on the snow and on the two gleaming black tracks ahead. His little tin lunch box was there near the controls. Perhaps he took an occasional bite out of his sandwich, chewing slowly, his feet in the felt boots tied around his legs with string.
    â€œEat.”
    â€œYou really believe you love me?”
    â€œHow can you ask such a question?”
    â€œIf I asked you to go away with me, would you do it?”
    She looked straight into his eyes. He had taken her home and now they were in her apartment. She was still wearing her hat and coat. The old man next door must be listening behind the transom. He would come. They didn’t have much time.
    â€œWould you like to go away, Frank?”
    He shook his head, no.
    â€œIf I asked you to sleep with me?”
    He had intentionally used an expression that would shock her.
    She still looked at him steadily. It was as though she wanted him to see down to the very depths of her blue eyes.
    â€œYou want to?” she said slowly.
    â€œNot today.”
    â€œAnytime you want.”
    â€œWhy do you love me?”
    â€œI don’t know.” There was a catch in her voice, and her glance wavered. What had she been about to reply? There had been different words on the tip of her tongue.
    He wanted to know, yet he was afraid to insist. He was a little scared of what she might say. Maybe he was wrong. He would have sworn—it was stupid, since there was nothing to make him think so—he would have sworn that she had been on the point of saying, “Because you’re unhappy.”
    And it wasn’t true. He wouldn’t let her or anyone think that. Besides, why should she care?
    Their neighbor had stirred. They could hear him breathing outside the door. He hesitated, then knocked.
    â€œExcuse me, Mademoiselle Sissy. It’s me again …”
    She couldn’t help smiling. Frank left, growling a vague good night. He didn’t go to his apartment. Instead he went down the stairs two at a time and headed toward Timo’s.
    â€œTonight?” asked Kromer, his mouth watering.
    Frank gave him a stony look.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhat’s the matter?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œHave you changed your mind?”
    â€œNo.” He ordered a drink, but he wasn’t thirsty.
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œBefore Sunday night, in