Nowhere City by Alison Lurie Page B

anything. And I think you’re kind of happy with yourself, so you don’t have to put anyone down.”
    They smiled at each other. Ceci put her hand out across the table; Paul took it. He continued to eat with his left hand.
    “You really trust me, don’t you?” he asked. “The way you went to sleep in my arms like that. You trust me like that and you hardly know me. How come?”
    “You have to trust people. That’s the way it is.” She shrugged. “Sure, they might shuck you; but if you don’t trust anybody you shuck yourself worse.”
    This answer pleased Paul, but not completely; he would have liked it to include some testimonial to himself. Whom else had she trusted? He relaxed his hold on Ceci’s hand; she took it back, and began to butter toast.
    He tried another subject. “I really like the way you paint. That big picture you’re working on now. That’s really interesting.”
    “Which one?”
    He described it.
    “Aw, that’s finished. I finished it last month; it’s only still up there because I haven’t done anything big since. I only blow a picture sometimes; you know, when I really feel like it. Here.” Ceci stretched across the table to put a piece of toast on Paul’s plate, skimming the butter with her right breast.
    “Thanks.”
    She sat down again, but the breast did not make it back under her shirt; it remained outside, the full lower curve shiny with butter, the nipple pointed towards him.
    “But what I dig most,” (he used her idiom rather self-consciously) “is the painting in the bedroom. On the ceiling. That’s great.”
    Ceci put down her coffee cup. “I didn’t paint that,” she said. “My husband made it.”
    “Oh.” Paul had forgotten about the husband. “It’s good, anyhow,” he said. “Is he a painter too?”
    “He could be. He’s everything. Only he’s nothing. He’s a shit. Let’s not talk about him.” Ceci became visibly disturbed as she spoke. Unconsciously, she pulled her shirt together in front; the breast disappeared.
    Paul made an effort, and began to talk about something else: Ceci’s painting. He told Ceci that painting was very important and that she was very important. Meanwhile he kept thinking about the husband. Who was he; where was he? She ought to paint more and take it more seriously, he said. Then maybe she could have a show.
    “What for?” Ceci sat back. “So they can take my pictures away and put them in somebody’s store, and then in somebody’s house, like some rich square? Uh-uh.” She grinned, and put her elbows on the table. “I feel like keeping my pictures.”
    Paul grinned back. A good moment. She was a beautiful, a really original girl. But he kept thinking about her husband.
    “What’s his name?”
    Ceci did not pretend to be puzzled. “Walter.” She put her cup onto her plate, beginning to clear the table.
    “Walter O’Connor.”
    “Christ, no. O’Connor’s my name. Walter Wong.”
    “Wong?”
    “Yes. He’s half Chinese.” Ceci was standing up now, gathering plates. She looked at Paul hard, to see how he took this. He did not know how he took it himself, but he felt uneasy. What was he supposed to say?—Some of my best friends are Chinese—?
    “My wife’s called Katherine,” he volunteered, thinking he might at least reciprocate. “She’s really a nice girl, but she’s very unhappy in Los Angeles.” These remarks sounded stupid. “She misses the East.” Ceci, continuing to stare at him, gave no help. “And she’s sick, most of the time.”
    “That’s tough. I’m sorry. What’s the matter with her?”
    “Sinus trouble. She gets terrible headaches.”
    “For Christ’s sake.” Ceci put a pile of plates down loudly in the sink. “Headaches! I thought you meant like she had cancer or something.” She wrung out a dish-rag. “So you could still be making it with her, only you don’t feel like it,” she said indistinctly, wiping the wooden table. Paul heard concern in her voice, and