at her.
Time was suspended for a moment. Then he turned his back on her and strolled away, turning the corner and disappearing in the shadows.
She unlocked the trunk of her car and took out a couple of tampons from the box she kept there for such emergencies as this. Locking the trunk up again, she took a last cautionary look over her shoulder and walked back inside.
As Violet sat down at the table (detouring first to the ladies’ room), Paula stood up. “It’s stuffy. I’m going to get some air.” She grabbed her purse.
“I’ll watch your purse for you,” Violet volunteered.
“I’ll take it, just in case I get lucky.” She laughed, the low alto voice humming up from her throat.
“Don’t even think about it,” Violet cautioned her.
“Don’t worry, girl, that was a joke. I might be foolish, but I ain’t stupid.”
Paula slung her beaded purse over her shoulder and walked across the floor toward the back entrance. “Order me another vodka tonic,” she called back over her shoulder. “Extra slice of lime.”
As she saw her friend leave it flashed on Violet that she should have said something about that kid she’d encountered, just to let Paula know. She should get up and follow Paula out, she thought—but immediately she decided not to. The parking lot was well lit, there were people coming in and out, and Paula could handle herself.
It was hot outside, too, but not as hot as it was in the bar. Paula had been afraid that one of her friends would come out with her. She wanted to cool off from the heat, that was true, but more than that, she wanted a cigarette. She was supposed to have quit three months ago; and she had. For two weeks. Then the temptation had been too strong, and she’d started up again. But she kept it a secret, she snuck them on breaks at work and when she was alone at home. It wasn’t that she felt that she had to apologize—she was a grown woman, she could do as she damn well pleased—but she knew her friends would get on her case something awful, and she didn’t need any more disapproval or moralizing.
Anyway, she was going to quit again, this time for good. A week; two, tops. She just needed a little more time to work up to it.
In the parking lot out back, among the cars, she snapped open her purse and rummaged around the contents for her Virginia Slims. The crumpled pack was at the bottom, crushed under her wallet, compact, lipstick, other necessities. Binaca to cover the smoke-breath. She really ought to give this purse a spring-cleaning, she thought; there could be God knows what festering in it. Almost as bad as her car, which was overdue for a cleaning out, too.
The pack was empty. Damn! She was sure there had been one or two left from lunch. Or had she smoked the last one while she was getting dressed for tonight?
She really wanted a smoke. Being in a bar, having a drink, dancing, you needed a cigarette to complement all that.
At the edge of the parking lot, where it ended in an access alley that ran between rows of buildings on either side, a man was standing alone, leaning against one of the old brick structures. Standing there, casually leaning, the position of his body that of someone with no agenda, no time frame. Paula couldn’t see his face; it was dark outside except for where the lights lit up the parking lot, and he was past that area. She couldn’t tell if he was old or young, rich or poor, handsome or ugly, nice or cruel. She could only tell one thing—he was smoking. A thin plume of smoke drifted up out of the shadows above his head, forming a shimmery nimbus in the light from the parking lot that was bouncing off the wall behind him.
She could cadge a cigarette off him. One smoke and a light, that’s all. The thought relieved her smoker’s anxiety. She walked across the lot, her high heels clicking off a staccato drum-shot as they struck the asphalt. Crossing the space, she realized there was no one else out here. Just her and the man leaning
Time was suspended for a moment. Then he turned his back on her and strolled away, turning the corner and disappearing in the shadows.
She unlocked the trunk of her car and took out a couple of tampons from the box she kept there for such emergencies as this. Locking the trunk up again, she took a last cautionary look over her shoulder and walked back inside.
As Violet sat down at the table (detouring first to the ladies’ room), Paula stood up. “It’s stuffy. I’m going to get some air.” She grabbed her purse.
“I’ll watch your purse for you,” Violet volunteered.
“I’ll take it, just in case I get lucky.” She laughed, the low alto voice humming up from her throat.
“Don’t even think about it,” Violet cautioned her.
“Don’t worry, girl, that was a joke. I might be foolish, but I ain’t stupid.”
Paula slung her beaded purse over her shoulder and walked across the floor toward the back entrance. “Order me another vodka tonic,” she called back over her shoulder. “Extra slice of lime.”
As she saw her friend leave it flashed on Violet that she should have said something about that kid she’d encountered, just to let Paula know. She should get up and follow Paula out, she thought—but immediately she decided not to. The parking lot was well lit, there were people coming in and out, and Paula could handle herself.
It was hot outside, too, but not as hot as it was in the bar. Paula had been afraid that one of her friends would come out with her. She wanted to cool off from the heat, that was true, but more than that, she wanted a cigarette. She was supposed to have quit three months ago; and she had. For two weeks. Then the temptation had been too strong, and she’d started up again. But she kept it a secret, she snuck them on breaks at work and when she was alone at home. It wasn’t that she felt that she had to apologize—she was a grown woman, she could do as she damn well pleased—but she knew her friends would get on her case something awful, and she didn’t need any more disapproval or moralizing.
Anyway, she was going to quit again, this time for good. A week; two, tops. She just needed a little more time to work up to it.
In the parking lot out back, among the cars, she snapped open her purse and rummaged around the contents for her Virginia Slims. The crumpled pack was at the bottom, crushed under her wallet, compact, lipstick, other necessities. Binaca to cover the smoke-breath. She really ought to give this purse a spring-cleaning, she thought; there could be God knows what festering in it. Almost as bad as her car, which was overdue for a cleaning out, too.
The pack was empty. Damn! She was sure there had been one or two left from lunch. Or had she smoked the last one while she was getting dressed for tonight?
She really wanted a smoke. Being in a bar, having a drink, dancing, you needed a cigarette to complement all that.
At the edge of the parking lot, where it ended in an access alley that ran between rows of buildings on either side, a man was standing alone, leaning against one of the old brick structures. Standing there, casually leaning, the position of his body that of someone with no agenda, no time frame. Paula couldn’t see his face; it was dark outside except for where the lights lit up the parking lot, and he was past that area. She couldn’t tell if he was old or young, rich or poor, handsome or ugly, nice or cruel. She could only tell one thing—he was smoking. A thin plume of smoke drifted up out of the shadows above his head, forming a shimmery nimbus in the light from the parking lot that was bouncing off the wall behind him.
She could cadge a cigarette off him. One smoke and a light, that’s all. The thought relieved her smoker’s anxiety. She walked across the lot, her high heels clicking off a staccato drum-shot as they struck the asphalt. Crossing the space, she realized there was no one else out here. Just her and the man leaning
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