asked.
“You’re goddamned right it did.” Half-consciously he was trying to use her language. “I was waiting for them to grab us the whole time. Listen, you’d better not try anything like that again.”
“Oh? Will you stop me?” Ceci smiled at him, but rather coolly. Paul did not answer. “Will you turn me in if I do?” Aware that he was being mocked, Paul looked away and continued driving. He began to feel that he had not been on an exciting assignation with a beautiful, crazy beatnik girl, but instead that he had been coldly used as a taxi by a married kleptomaniac waitress.
Following Ceci’s directions, Paul pulled up in front of a two-story shack on an alley in the beach slum of Venice. He got out of the car and began unloading her bags of groceries onto the sidewalk. One. Two. Three.
“There you are,” he said flatly.
“It’s upstairs.” Hardly glancing at Paul, Ceci picked up a carton of beer and began climbing a rickety stairway at the side of the building. Paul stood and looked at the three bags sitting on the dirty, cracked sidewalk, each printed in large letters with the name of the Superdupermarket: JOY, JOY, JOY. Then, furious, but a gentleman to the last, he picked them up and followed her.
The door at the top of the stairs opened directly onto a kitchen, shabby and dim. There was a big bowl of fruit and vegetables on the table, dishes stacked in the sink; the walls were covered with paintings and drawings and photographs. There was no sign of her husband. He set the bags on a table.
“Hey, you brought them all. Great. Thank you.” In Paul’s suspicious mood, it sounded like a dismissal.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Well; see you next week, probably.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Oh, you know. At the restaurant.”
“Aren’t you staying for dinner?”
“Was I supposed to stay for dinner?”
Ceci released the groceries she was holding, two cans of soup and a head of lettuce. They fell on to the table. “Don’t put me down, man,” she said. “Don’t do that. I know you’re bugged because I scammed off with that rice. All right, but you don’t have to walk out on me.”
“I’m not walking out on you,” Paul protested, confused again. “I didn’t know you expected me to come to dinner. Honestly. Anyhow, I can’t come to dinner. I have to go home.”
“For Christ’s sake. What’d you think I got all this stuff for?”
“I don’t know. For you and your husband to eat, I suppose.”
“Christ. I wouldn’t buy crab meat and stuff like that for him. We’re separated. I mean he doesn’t live here any more.” She laughed shortly, then widened her eyes and looked at Paul warmly. “So come on. Stay.”
“I’d love to. But I can’t, really. I have to go home.”
Now Ceci narrowed her eyes: sexy kitten into watchful cat. “I get it,” she said finally. “You have to go back and have dinner with your wife. Great.”
“I’m sorry,” Paul said.
“So we blew the whole afternoon dragging around in that market, and now you have to go home. Or maybe you want to go home?” She spoke steadily, but Paul saw the slope of her shoulders, the way her mouth remained open at the end of the question, and knew that she was as tense and disappointed as he.
“God, no.” He extended his arms; immediately, or so it seemed, Ceci was pressed up against him, kissing him lightly all over the face; he was kissing her.
“Wow,” she said. “Ow. Wait a minute.” She stepped back, lifted her jersey, and pulled the box of wild rice out of her skirt. She laughed: “I forgot about this; I thought for a second it was some crazy thing you had on.” She leaned against Paul and began kissing him again, rubbing up against him very gently with her arms, breasts, legs, and belly. The blood ran into Paul’s head and private parts. He clutched at Ceci and bit her on the shoulder, getting a mouthful of cotton jersey. She put her feet on his feet, stood on tiptoe, and looked
“You’re goddamned right it did.” Half-consciously he was trying to use her language. “I was waiting for them to grab us the whole time. Listen, you’d better not try anything like that again.”
“Oh? Will you stop me?” Ceci smiled at him, but rather coolly. Paul did not answer. “Will you turn me in if I do?” Aware that he was being mocked, Paul looked away and continued driving. He began to feel that he had not been on an exciting assignation with a beautiful, crazy beatnik girl, but instead that he had been coldly used as a taxi by a married kleptomaniac waitress.
Following Ceci’s directions, Paul pulled up in front of a two-story shack on an alley in the beach slum of Venice. He got out of the car and began unloading her bags of groceries onto the sidewalk. One. Two. Three.
“There you are,” he said flatly.
“It’s upstairs.” Hardly glancing at Paul, Ceci picked up a carton of beer and began climbing a rickety stairway at the side of the building. Paul stood and looked at the three bags sitting on the dirty, cracked sidewalk, each printed in large letters with the name of the Superdupermarket: JOY, JOY, JOY. Then, furious, but a gentleman to the last, he picked them up and followed her.
The door at the top of the stairs opened directly onto a kitchen, shabby and dim. There was a big bowl of fruit and vegetables on the table, dishes stacked in the sink; the walls were covered with paintings and drawings and photographs. There was no sign of her husband. He set the bags on a table.
“Hey, you brought them all. Great. Thank you.” In Paul’s suspicious mood, it sounded like a dismissal.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Well; see you next week, probably.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Oh, you know. At the restaurant.”
“Aren’t you staying for dinner?”
“Was I supposed to stay for dinner?”
Ceci released the groceries she was holding, two cans of soup and a head of lettuce. They fell on to the table. “Don’t put me down, man,” she said. “Don’t do that. I know you’re bugged because I scammed off with that rice. All right, but you don’t have to walk out on me.”
“I’m not walking out on you,” Paul protested, confused again. “I didn’t know you expected me to come to dinner. Honestly. Anyhow, I can’t come to dinner. I have to go home.”
“For Christ’s sake. What’d you think I got all this stuff for?”
“I don’t know. For you and your husband to eat, I suppose.”
“Christ. I wouldn’t buy crab meat and stuff like that for him. We’re separated. I mean he doesn’t live here any more.” She laughed shortly, then widened her eyes and looked at Paul warmly. “So come on. Stay.”
“I’d love to. But I can’t, really. I have to go home.”
Now Ceci narrowed her eyes: sexy kitten into watchful cat. “I get it,” she said finally. “You have to go back and have dinner with your wife. Great.”
“I’m sorry,” Paul said.
“So we blew the whole afternoon dragging around in that market, and now you have to go home. Or maybe you want to go home?” She spoke steadily, but Paul saw the slope of her shoulders, the way her mouth remained open at the end of the question, and knew that she was as tense and disappointed as he.
“God, no.” He extended his arms; immediately, or so it seemed, Ceci was pressed up against him, kissing him lightly all over the face; he was kissing her.
“Wow,” she said. “Ow. Wait a minute.” She stepped back, lifted her jersey, and pulled the box of wild rice out of her skirt. She laughed: “I forgot about this; I thought for a second it was some crazy thing you had on.” She leaned against Paul and began kissing him again, rubbing up against him very gently with her arms, breasts, legs, and belly. The blood ran into Paul’s head and private parts. He clutched at Ceci and bit her on the shoulder, getting a mouthful of cotton jersey. She put her feet on his feet, stood on tiptoe, and looked
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