"Woman-trouble?" she asked.
"The term is tautological," I said. "Woman and trouble are synonyms. If the language had any logic the words would rhyme."
The Firebird put a freckled arm across my shoulder and squeezed my deltoid with her resting hand. I shrugged. "Don't try to shake me loose, Johnny," she said. "I'm trying to find out what sort of people you are. Whether you're a Shrinker or a Flesh-Presser."
"Obviously, you're of the Shrinker persuasion," I said.
"Hoo-hah! Shrinkers are the other race from me," the Firebird said. "They're the people who quail at shaking hands, who never slap a back nor playfully pinch. They hate to be crowded, don't like to be touched. My sort of people, though, tend to cuddle like puppies, or like cattle in a thunderstorm; we take comfort in the closeness of other humans. We're not erotic about this, Johnny. Not necessarily erotic, I mean. We have our moments, too, or the Shrinkers would long since have taken over the world in spite of their dreadful handicap. We're the people who make brilliant barbers. The kind who say hello to you with a Roman handshake and a clasp on the shoulder. We're the doctors with the healing touch, the most tender nurses. We're the Flesh-Pressers." She gently squeezed my shoulder-muscle again to demonstrate. "Tell me what's the matter, Johnny. Maybe I can help."
"No magic touch will cure my trouble," I said. "Anne and I are through. It was hopeless. I was like the goldfish in love with the cat. So I called our romance to a halt today and drove home in my little green sports-car, feeling a little green and hardly sporty at all. Please don't mention this again, Firebird; not till I'm old and bald and my wound has healed to a thin white scar."
"Can I say one thing?"
"You will, so do."
"I'm really sorry, Johnny."