In a sense, the thing never happened. Actually, it would not have happened had not a thundershower been at its height when the four of them came out of the movie.
It had been a horror picture. A really horrible one—not trapdoor claptrap, but a subtle, insidious thing that made the rain-laden night air seem clean and sweet and welcome. To three of them. The fourth—
They stood under the marquee, and Mae said, “Gee, gang, what do we do now, swim or take taxis?” Mae was a cute little blonde with a turned-up nose, the better for smelling the perfumes she sold across a department-store counter.
Elsie turned to the two boys and said, “Let’s all go up to my studio for a while. It’s early yet.” The faint emphasis on the word “studio” was the snapper. Elsie had had the studio for only a week, and the novelty of living in a studio instead of a furnished room made her feel proud and Bohemian and a little wicked. She wouldn’t, of course, have invited Walter up alone, but as long as there were two couples of them, it would be all right.
Bob said, “Swell. Listen. Wally, you hold this cab. I’ll run down and get some wine. You girls like port?”
Walter and the girls took the cab while Bob talked the bartender, whom he knew slightly, into selling a fifth of wine after legal hours. He came running back with it and they were off to Elsie’s.
Mae, in the cab, got to thinking about the horror picture again; she’d almost made them walk out on it. She shivered, and Bob put his arm around her protectively. “Forget it, Mae.” he said. “Just a picture. Nothing like that ever happens, really.”
“If it did—” Walter began, and then stopped abruptly.
Bob looked at him and said, “If it did, what?”
Walter’s voice was a bit apologetic. “Forget now what I was going to say.” He smiled, a little strangely, as though the picture had affected him a bit differently than it had affected the others. Quite a bit.