instance—Ah, shit; that was it—Ceci didn’t know about Katherine. She had no idea that he was married.
All right, what could he do? He could decide not to tell her, eat the forbidden fruit, and let her find out later, or maybe never, that he was married. Or he could be honest, and if so the sooner the better. He was really a good guy, wasn’t he?
“What d’you dig the most? Watermelon or cantaloupe?” Ceci asked. She looked very young with her hair down, much younger than he had thought—not over twenty-five.
“I don’t know,” he mumbled. “The watermelon looks good.” And then, deliberately. “I mean, my wife likes cantaloupe, but I guess I really prefer watermelon.”
“Okay.” Ceci lifted up a section of it, heavy, red, dripping juice.
“You didn’t hear me,” Paul said.
“Yeah, I heard you.” Holding the melon, Ceci looked at Paul, but did not smile. “You’re married. O.K. So am I, if you want to know.”
“Oh,” Paul said, while she lowered the melon into her cart. So it was for the husband, not for him. He felt stupid. But if she didn’t mean anything, she had no right to look at him that way.
“There’s just one more thing I’ve got to have for this dinner,” Ceci said. “Wild rice. I think it’s over here.” Paul followed the tail of gold hair, brooding. Wild rice as a sop to her husband and her conscience, maybe; but he was going to have her first, whatever she thought. Still, wasn’t it rather—“Jesus Christ, one seventy-nine for that measly little box! Oh no, uh-uh. Hey, Paul.” Using his name for the first time, Ceci also moved a step nearer to him, so that their bodies were touching.
“Put it in your pocket,” she said in a low voice. “Come on, you’ve got lots of room.” Leaning up against him as they stood side by side in front of the shelves, Ceci began shoving the box of wild rice down into Paul’s jacket pocket.
“What’re you doing? For God’s sake.” Paul pulled the rice out of his pocket. “You want me to go to jail?”
“Aw, don’t be chicken. Nobody’s going to see you.” Both Paul and Ceci continued to hold the box of rice. It had a picture of an ugly Indian in a canoe on it. “I thought you were a good guy,” she went on. “What’s the matter: haven’t you ever lifted anything before?”
“No, I haven’t,” Paul said. “And I’m not going to start now.” He put the box back on the shelf. Not only is she married, he thought—she’s a kleptomaniac. How did I ever get into this? Her kitten face, soft mouth and snub nose answered him.
“Listen, you shouldn’t steal from stores,” he said. “You’ll get into trouble.”
“You run your own life, pal.” Ceci took the box off the shelf. “Don’t look if it scares you,” she added, pressing more closely up against him, and began to pull her black jersey out from the wide leather belt.
“There.” Holding her sweater up, Ceci shoved the box of wild rice down between her skirt and the soft, white skin of her stomach. “Okay.” Paul dared to look along the aisle; no one seemed to have noticed anything.
Letting the jersey down over the skirt, Ceci stepped aside. “Does it show?” Paul shook his head. “Great.” She put her hand on the shopping cart again. “Anybody looks at me, they’ll think I’m pregnant. With a real square baby.” She grinned, and Paul could not help smiling.
“You’re crazy,” he said.
He was pleased with this explanation, and repeated it to himself several times as he and Ceci passed slowly through the checkout stand, left the Joy Superdupermarket, and loaded her groceries into his car. She was crazy. It formed an important part of the legal defense he was composing in his head in the expectation of being picked up at any moment for shoplifting. When they turned out of the parking lot onto National Boulevard, he let out a sigh.
Ceci turned in the seat to look at him. “That really bugged you, didn’t it?” she
All right, what could he do? He could decide not to tell her, eat the forbidden fruit, and let her find out later, or maybe never, that he was married. Or he could be honest, and if so the sooner the better. He was really a good guy, wasn’t he?
“What d’you dig the most? Watermelon or cantaloupe?” Ceci asked. She looked very young with her hair down, much younger than he had thought—not over twenty-five.
“I don’t know,” he mumbled. “The watermelon looks good.” And then, deliberately. “I mean, my wife likes cantaloupe, but I guess I really prefer watermelon.”
“Okay.” Ceci lifted up a section of it, heavy, red, dripping juice.
“You didn’t hear me,” Paul said.
“Yeah, I heard you.” Holding the melon, Ceci looked at Paul, but did not smile. “You’re married. O.K. So am I, if you want to know.”
“Oh,” Paul said, while she lowered the melon into her cart. So it was for the husband, not for him. He felt stupid. But if she didn’t mean anything, she had no right to look at him that way.
“There’s just one more thing I’ve got to have for this dinner,” Ceci said. “Wild rice. I think it’s over here.” Paul followed the tail of gold hair, brooding. Wild rice as a sop to her husband and her conscience, maybe; but he was going to have her first, whatever she thought. Still, wasn’t it rather—“Jesus Christ, one seventy-nine for that measly little box! Oh no, uh-uh. Hey, Paul.” Using his name for the first time, Ceci also moved a step nearer to him, so that their bodies were touching.
“Put it in your pocket,” she said in a low voice. “Come on, you’ve got lots of room.” Leaning up against him as they stood side by side in front of the shelves, Ceci began shoving the box of wild rice down into Paul’s jacket pocket.
“What’re you doing? For God’s sake.” Paul pulled the rice out of his pocket. “You want me to go to jail?”
“Aw, don’t be chicken. Nobody’s going to see you.” Both Paul and Ceci continued to hold the box of rice. It had a picture of an ugly Indian in a canoe on it. “I thought you were a good guy,” she went on. “What’s the matter: haven’t you ever lifted anything before?”
“No, I haven’t,” Paul said. “And I’m not going to start now.” He put the box back on the shelf. Not only is she married, he thought—she’s a kleptomaniac. How did I ever get into this? Her kitten face, soft mouth and snub nose answered him.
“Listen, you shouldn’t steal from stores,” he said. “You’ll get into trouble.”
“You run your own life, pal.” Ceci took the box off the shelf. “Don’t look if it scares you,” she added, pressing more closely up against him, and began to pull her black jersey out from the wide leather belt.
“There.” Holding her sweater up, Ceci shoved the box of wild rice down between her skirt and the soft, white skin of her stomach. “Okay.” Paul dared to look along the aisle; no one seemed to have noticed anything.
Letting the jersey down over the skirt, Ceci stepped aside. “Does it show?” Paul shook his head. “Great.” She put her hand on the shopping cart again. “Anybody looks at me, they’ll think I’m pregnant. With a real square baby.” She grinned, and Paul could not help smiling.
“You’re crazy,” he said.
He was pleased with this explanation, and repeated it to himself several times as he and Ceci passed slowly through the checkout stand, left the Joy Superdupermarket, and loaded her groceries into his car. She was crazy. It formed an important part of the legal defense he was composing in his head in the expectation of being picked up at any moment for shoplifting. When they turned out of the parking lot onto National Boulevard, he let out a sigh.
Ceci turned in the seat to look at him. “That really bugged you, didn’t it?” she
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