the litter of dirty dishes lying about the kitchen table.
"What about these dinner dishes?" she asked.
"You go to the show," Joe Nicolbee repeated. "I'll do 'em."
Agnes smiled happily. This was just what she wanted.
"I'll call the girls," she said rising , "and see if they'll go with me."
She paused to pat Joe Nicolbee's head fondly before leaving him there in the kitchen. She still thought this gesture pleased him. "You don't mind staying home alone, honey?" she asked.
Joe Nicolbee sighed.
"No," he said. "I don't mind. You'd better hurry." And with faintly cynical amusement he watched his wife hurry out of the kitchen. He could hear her dialing a telephone rapidly in the hall off the living room.
A few seconds later her voice floated faintly to him, carefully muffled so that he couldn't make out any of the conversation. But Joe Nicolbee didn't care to hear the conversation. He knew Agnes wasn't calling any of the "girls". He'd known it for over three years now. It didn't bother Joe Nicolbee because it had been longer than three years since he'd been silly enough to give a damn about Agnes.
It was Joe Nicolbee's silent prayer that Agnes would stop being a fool some day and divorce him. But no, she wasn't the type to be honest enough for that. Joe Nicolbee sighed and contemplated the litter of dirty dishes on the table.
They were a part of Joe Nicolbee's unpleasant existence. Just as much a part as Agnes, his dull job at the department store, his stupid, meddlesome neighbors, and the endless scrimping and saving that meant getting along. They were just as much a part of Joe's existence as the daily newspapers that screamed of horror and bloodshed and war and persecution. Just as much an integral part of Joe Nicolbee's life as breathing.
Agnes came back into the kitchen a little later to kiss Joe on the forehead and say good-bye. Joe watched her leave, a curious mixture of scorn and amusement on his features.
In his dream, Nicolbee saw the loveliest woman imagination had ever fashioned
"Have a good time with the girls," he called after her. It pleased him to say that. One of the small remaining pleasures was the realization that Agnes was so stupid she thought she was getting away with something.
He heard the door close, yawned, and stood up, mechanically arranging the dishes to pile them in the sink. He'd have a smoke after he finished these, and then pile into bed. Then he could get back to his dreams.
Joe Nicolbee enjoyed dreaming. You might say he was good at it. For as far back as he could recall, Joe had never slept without dreams.
When he was a little kid, he used to dream that he was a knight in armor, riding a great horse and wearing a plumed helmet. He was the hero who rescued plenty of fair maidens. Later, when Joe was at school, he'd dream he was the campus hero, an All American halfback, or a brilliant Phi Beta Kappa scholar. But of course he was never really any of these.
Joe Nicolbee was unfortunately a pretty ordinary person. He was ordinary, that is, according to the shape and standards of worldly values. No one expected Joe Nicolbee to emerge into the limelight as a world beater, a Great Person. And lie never did.
As he went through life no one seemed surprised that he wasn't setting the world ablaze. No one seemed surprised to see him becoming more and more a microscopic nonentity in the scheme of things. Joe wasn't surprised either. He had long grown used to the fact that his dreams never approached reality.
"Hell," he told himself, "I'm just Joe Nicolbee."
When Joe had gotten his job at the department store he'd had dreams of some day ascending to great heights in commerce. And about that time Joe was dreaming of a wonderful girl to make life blissfully complete.
Joe married Agnes, and for the first time thought he'd come pretty close to equaling in reality what he'd had in his dream world. Bu t even Agnes proved a dud. It had been just wishful thinking that made him think she was the
"What about these dinner dishes?" she asked.
"You go to the show," Joe Nicolbee repeated. "I'll do 'em."
Agnes smiled happily. This was just what she wanted.
"I'll call the girls," she said rising , "and see if they'll go with me."
She paused to pat Joe Nicolbee's head fondly before leaving him there in the kitchen. She still thought this gesture pleased him. "You don't mind staying home alone, honey?" she asked.
Joe Nicolbee sighed.
"No," he said. "I don't mind. You'd better hurry." And with faintly cynical amusement he watched his wife hurry out of the kitchen. He could hear her dialing a telephone rapidly in the hall off the living room.
A few seconds later her voice floated faintly to him, carefully muffled so that he couldn't make out any of the conversation. But Joe Nicolbee didn't care to hear the conversation. He knew Agnes wasn't calling any of the "girls". He'd known it for over three years now. It didn't bother Joe Nicolbee because it had been longer than three years since he'd been silly enough to give a damn about Agnes.
It was Joe Nicolbee's silent prayer that Agnes would stop being a fool some day and divorce him. But no, she wasn't the type to be honest enough for that. Joe Nicolbee sighed and contemplated the litter of dirty dishes on the table.
They were a part of Joe Nicolbee's unpleasant existence. Just as much a part as Agnes, his dull job at the department store, his stupid, meddlesome neighbors, and the endless scrimping and saving that meant getting along. They were just as much a part of Joe's existence as the daily newspapers that screamed of horror and bloodshed and war and persecution. Just as much an integral part of Joe Nicolbee's life as breathing.
Agnes came back into the kitchen a little later to kiss Joe on the forehead and say good-bye. Joe watched her leave, a curious mixture of scorn and amusement on his features.
In his dream, Nicolbee saw the loveliest woman imagination had ever fashioned
"Have a good time with the girls," he called after her. It pleased him to say that. One of the small remaining pleasures was the realization that Agnes was so stupid she thought she was getting away with something.
He heard the door close, yawned, and stood up, mechanically arranging the dishes to pile them in the sink. He'd have a smoke after he finished these, and then pile into bed. Then he could get back to his dreams.
Joe Nicolbee enjoyed dreaming. You might say he was good at it. For as far back as he could recall, Joe had never slept without dreams.
When he was a little kid, he used to dream that he was a knight in armor, riding a great horse and wearing a plumed helmet. He was the hero who rescued plenty of fair maidens. Later, when Joe was at school, he'd dream he was the campus hero, an All American halfback, or a brilliant Phi Beta Kappa scholar. But of course he was never really any of these.
Joe Nicolbee was unfortunately a pretty ordinary person. He was ordinary, that is, according to the shape and standards of worldly values. No one expected Joe Nicolbee to emerge into the limelight as a world beater, a Great Person. And lie never did.
As he went through life no one seemed surprised that he wasn't setting the world ablaze. No one seemed surprised to see him becoming more and more a microscopic nonentity in the scheme of things. Joe wasn't surprised either. He had long grown used to the fact that his dreams never approached reality.
"Hell," he told himself, "I'm just Joe Nicolbee."
When Joe had gotten his job at the department store he'd had dreams of some day ascending to great heights in commerce. And about that time Joe was dreaming of a wonderful girl to make life blissfully complete.
Joe married Agnes, and for the first time thought he'd come pretty close to equaling in reality what he'd had in his dream world. Bu t even Agnes proved a dud. It had been just wishful thinking that made him think she was the
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