“What a dump!” Gloria was saying. She put a stack of records on the changer. A big girl, Gloria wore her age in the generosity of her size. She had expanded begrudgingly, as a kindness to her nature. Peter could well imagine that at twenty-five she was a cold-eyed, huge-breasted beauty, admired by men on street corners, unapproachable at least to him. But at thirty, more likely thirty-five, she was blowzy; the stays of her will had split, and everything had come loose. Fading? She was all but out of the picture. Her brownish shoulder-length hair, from having been too many colors in its lifetime, had lost all sense of its own. A revision of his first opinion, Peter found himself liking her. “What do you do?” he asked.
Out of his world, Gloria was tapping her foot to the music, snapping her fingers, swaying to the singer’s love words, loved. She glanced at him shrewdly, scowled, no answer.
He tried again.
“You don’t have to talk,” she said. “Listen to the music, huh?”
He listened a moment — it was “Stardust”—then put on his coat. “Tell Herbie I had to leave,” he said.
“Herbie’s coming back,” she said as though part of the song.
“I have things to do,” he said. In his imagination, priming himself, he was talking to Lois on the phone, asking for her forgiveness; but she was adamant, unmoved by the generosity of his appeal. “I can’t trust myself to you,” she said, to which he had no answer.
“Don’t go, huh?” Gloria said, coming to life, no longer possessed by the song.
It was the nicest thing anyone had said to him in days.
“Well …” He investigated other alternatives. What other alternatives? He could think of a Forty-second Street movie, a White Rose Bar, the Automat, the park, several parks. Why not? Killing time, he remembered, was death itself.
“Come on. We’ll dance awhile if you want.” She held her arms out. He came on.
She talked about herself while they danced; Peter listened studiously, but her words — what a barrage of blanks! — kept getting in the way of her meaning. It was like True Confessions with the sex left out; she had a gift for exotic complaint.
Still, he enjoyed holding her, embarrassed at his pleasure — small pleasure! At the same time, he couldn’t help wondering what Lois was doing at the same time.
“I may have lost a lot of things,” Gloria said, “but I still have my pride.”
“You’re also a good dancer,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said. “I mean, I used to dance a little. Professionally.”
“I’m impressed. Would I have seen you anywhere?”
“I don’t know. How should I know? Come on. Are you kidding me?” She stopped dancing to look at him, a sly child’s look, her mouth like a skirt hiked up at the corner. Under her microscope, he smiled amoebically.
They continued dancing. She clutched him tighter now, as though he might be valuable. He knew better of course, but he admired her opinion of him — a generous girl. Mistreated by his brother.
“You’re a lot like Herbie,” she said, “you know?”
If he didn’t know, hadn’t known before she had pointed it out, he knew now. It hardly mattered to him that it wasn’t true.
To old favorites, songs of love lost and yearned for, paper moons, animated dolls, they danced dreamily, dream sharers, in the languid sweetness of nostalgia. When the music stopped they were still together, dreaming of loss. Nothing else to do: he kissed the down on her neck. “Damn Herbie!” she muttered. Damn Lois! he thought.
They kissed briefly; she seemed distracted, tolerant, as though he would do for the time until something better — something really valuable — came along. It was an old story with him, but what could he do? Ashamed, his balls in business for themselves, he wanted her. “The music’s stopped,” he said, still holding her.
“Don’t get all hot and bothered,” she said. “Herbie’ll be back soon.”
In a fool’s rage, Peter retreated to the iodine-colored sofa, stumbling in his haste on a bulge in the rug; he sat before he meant to.
Gloria howled. “You’re funny,” she said. He was.
Peter tried to smile, but, his feelings wounded, a victim of self-outrage, he couldn’t quite bring it off; he sulked. Gloria approached, formidable as a lion, her canny half-smile promising … what?
Herbie and Doreen burst in the door. “Back from the front — two casualties.” Ha ha! Peter grabbed his coat and left.
He called home just in case Lois had returned, letting the phone ring twenty, twenty-five times — maybe she was asleep — before he gave up. What to do at eleven o’clock in the morning? He went to a movie on Forty-second Street — The Best Years of Our Lives — and fell asleep during the coming attractions. “National Security Files presents the Shocking Truth behind Yesterday’s Headlines. Shocking Secrets Bared.” Gloria, the star of the film, was beckoning to him coyly from behind a tree. As he came closer, she seemed to move backward, away from him, still smiling, still beckoning to him. He followed her, out of breath, enchanted by his prospects. His chest sobbed with pain but he kept going, kept after her. Finally they arrived at a small enclosure, apparently cut off from the rest of the park. The grass thick and green, the weather like spring. She was swaying in place to the music — the song, “Stardust,” coming from somewhere. He came toward her, his erection like a divining rod.
“Wait,” she said. And he waited. Then in one graceful unbroken gesture she pulled her orange dress up over her head, spreading it like a blanket on the grass at her feet. He nearly cried at her nakedness; so magnificent a gift it was that he looked behind him to see if it was meant for someone else. For him. He approached cautiously, then (what the hell!) flung himself headlong at her. Smiling, she eluded his grasp. “No,” she said. “I don’t want that.”
A sigh escaped. “What’s the matter?” he cried. “I mean, you took off all your clothes. You beckoned to me, didn’t you? Don’t be mean, huh?”
“You’re not the kind of man I thought you were.”
“What do you mean?” He was sweating. “I’m only human.”
“You don’t respect me.”
“What do you mean? Sure I do.” He inched toward her, hoping to take her by surprise.
“I want to be loved,” she said softly.
“Sure. Sure.” Another step forward. “Love is something I’ve got plenty of,” he said.
“Unh unh.” She wagged her finger at him. “I know your type,” she said. “You’re only interested in your own pleasure — a quick lay, then you run home to your wife and tell her about it.”
“You got me wrong,” he said, withholding his rage. “It’s not pleasure I want but …” He grabbed her, tumbling her to the ground. A cracking sound. Her body weightless under him, he kissed her veined eyelids as fragile as petals. “You see,” he whispered, “I only wanted to give you love, honey. I’m not like my brother Herbie.”
There was no indication that she heard him. Panic broke loose in his head, sweat bursting from his eyes. Her luxuriant breasts shriveled, froze. “Love you,” he whispered, hoping to wake her. Her body freezing, adamant. He was up on his feet, suffocated, backing away. She was still there, impassive, an old woman now, the orange dress in repose at her feet. He could see now that it was another girl, not Gloria, but someone familiar, someone he knew …
You!
“Quiet!” An old crone nudged him with her umbrella.
He awoke with a cry and rushed from the theater without his coat.