paid.
“Not for me” was her reply.
“Why?”
“There’s a reason,” she said.
“I know,” he answered. “I have to tell you about it.”
“
You
have to tell
me?
”
“When we sit down.”
She was puzzled. “Okay,” she agreed, “but where?”
“There’s a place in the Twenties between Fifth and Sixth that’s open Mondays. Their specialty is fish (which they pronounce
fis
) grilled on charcoal.” She wanted to go there. “Shall we walk or take the bus?”
They were at the corner of Fifth Avenue and 44th Street, and at that instant a double-decker pulled up to them and opened its doors with the sound that seals make at the zoo when their keeper arrives with a bucket of squid. Catherine leapt onto the steps and was up the spiral staircase and out of sight before the doors closed. He paid and followed.
Appropriately for a couple that had come on together and would leave together, they sat next to one another. Their thighs were close enough so that when the bus occasionally lurched from side to side they touched, and for both of them this was enough to erase the previous awkward moments. Each touch, she felt, was as powerful as two shots of gin.
“What did you do in the war?” he asked, his gaze fixed on the side of her face as she deliberately looked ahead. He had misjudged her age: the construction of her face was such that, even when she was fifty, she would look thirty-five.
“I went to college. Other than rolling bandages and giving blood, I didn’t do much for the war effort.”
“That’s okay,” he said. “The war effort was for you. We were fighting for you.”
“For me and not democracy?” she asked archly.
“I never met anyone who fought for anything but the flesh and blood of the living and the honor of the dead.”
“What about the Atlantic Charter?”
“Who the hell knew or cared about that?”
“I just wish I could have done more,” she told him.
“By your existence, you did more than enough.”
“You’re a flatterer,” she said, half accusingly.
“No, I’m not” was his answer.
“You don’t know me.”
“Yes I do,” he said. “I know you very well. And you know me.”
Early on a Monday, the restaurant was nearly empty. As they waited to be escorted to the terrace, it was the first time they had been together in a small, quiet room. Until then, it had been in the open air, or the automat, which was noisy and busy, with a forty-foot ceiling and whirling fans. Here it was almost silent, the air still. Standing next to Catherine, Harry breathed in. Catherine often smelled like a good department store: new cloth, expensive perfume, fresh air, and, when she carried a purse, fine leather. And when at times, which he would come to know, she would have a gin and tonic, the scent of juniper coming from her lips was far more intoxicating than the alcohol. He wondered if women understood that their apparently insignificant attributes often have a power greater than that of armies. It was what he had meant when he had said that the war had been fought for her. Like the atom, which in its internal bonds contains the essence of matter and energy, in her glance, the sparkle of her eye, the grasp of her hand, the elasticity of her hair in motion, the way she stands, the blush of her cheek, sweep of her shoulder, tone of her voice, and snap of her locket, a woman is the spur and essence of existence.
They sat at a table in the garden, opposite a long brazier from which a fire cast up white smoke. Sometimes the wind blew the smoke around them before it rose. When this happened, and they were enveloped until they could barely see one another, they couldn’t stop laughing, because sitting in a restaurant was not supposed to replicate the experience of being trapped in a burning building. Immediately when they had come in, the maitre d’ and waiters had sized them up and judged that they were just beginning a love affair. The staff knew to keep out of sight even
“Not for me” was her reply.
“Why?”
“There’s a reason,” she said.
“I know,” he answered. “I have to tell you about it.”
“
You
have to tell
me?
”
“When we sit down.”
She was puzzled. “Okay,” she agreed, “but where?”
“There’s a place in the Twenties between Fifth and Sixth that’s open Mondays. Their specialty is fish (which they pronounce
fis
) grilled on charcoal.” She wanted to go there. “Shall we walk or take the bus?”
They were at the corner of Fifth Avenue and 44th Street, and at that instant a double-decker pulled up to them and opened its doors with the sound that seals make at the zoo when their keeper arrives with a bucket of squid. Catherine leapt onto the steps and was up the spiral staircase and out of sight before the doors closed. He paid and followed.
Appropriately for a couple that had come on together and would leave together, they sat next to one another. Their thighs were close enough so that when the bus occasionally lurched from side to side they touched, and for both of them this was enough to erase the previous awkward moments. Each touch, she felt, was as powerful as two shots of gin.
“What did you do in the war?” he asked, his gaze fixed on the side of her face as she deliberately looked ahead. He had misjudged her age: the construction of her face was such that, even when she was fifty, she would look thirty-five.
“I went to college. Other than rolling bandages and giving blood, I didn’t do much for the war effort.”
“That’s okay,” he said. “The war effort was for you. We were fighting for you.”
“For me and not democracy?” she asked archly.
“I never met anyone who fought for anything but the flesh and blood of the living and the honor of the dead.”
“What about the Atlantic Charter?”
“Who the hell knew or cared about that?”
“I just wish I could have done more,” she told him.
“By your existence, you did more than enough.”
“You’re a flatterer,” she said, half accusingly.
“No, I’m not” was his answer.
“You don’t know me.”
“Yes I do,” he said. “I know you very well. And you know me.”
Early on a Monday, the restaurant was nearly empty. As they waited to be escorted to the terrace, it was the first time they had been together in a small, quiet room. Until then, it had been in the open air, or the automat, which was noisy and busy, with a forty-foot ceiling and whirling fans. Here it was almost silent, the air still. Standing next to Catherine, Harry breathed in. Catherine often smelled like a good department store: new cloth, expensive perfume, fresh air, and, when she carried a purse, fine leather. And when at times, which he would come to know, she would have a gin and tonic, the scent of juniper coming from her lips was far more intoxicating than the alcohol. He wondered if women understood that their apparently insignificant attributes often have a power greater than that of armies. It was what he had meant when he had said that the war had been fought for her. Like the atom, which in its internal bonds contains the essence of matter and energy, in her glance, the sparkle of her eye, the grasp of her hand, the elasticity of her hair in motion, the way she stands, the blush of her cheek, sweep of her shoulder, tone of her voice, and snap of her locket, a woman is the spur and essence of existence.
They sat at a table in the garden, opposite a long brazier from which a fire cast up white smoke. Sometimes the wind blew the smoke around them before it rose. When this happened, and they were enveloped until they could barely see one another, they couldn’t stop laughing, because sitting in a restaurant was not supposed to replicate the experience of being trapped in a burning building. Immediately when they had come in, the maitre d’ and waiters had sized them up and judged that they were just beginning a love affair. The staff knew to keep out of sight even
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