“Want a drink?”
“No.”
He tried to make her open her lips. She was stubborn and in the struggle they both laughed and she relented a little. In a stupid, urgent way he made love to her while she waited passively and grew more and more irritated. He was so easy to see through. Trying to make her forget, trying to deny all her intelligence, trying to sneak. It was worse than when he just sort of went to sleep and breathed hard and forgot anything except that she was a body next to him to clutch and hold tight. She suddenly jerked away from him and sat up, patting her hair. Her cheeks burned because his whiskers had scratched them.
“Aw, Gin!” He lay watching her for a minute, and then he too sat up, with his necktie all crooked. She was angry and a little disgusted.
“Damn you,” he said.
“Well, I told you. I told you.”
He didn’t answer. Feeling miserable and guilty, she walked over to her coat and rummaged in the pocket for a comb. She primped and patted herself with defiant jerky movements, and wished that he would speak. He didn’t. It swept over her that she didn’t really know him at all. She didn’t really know anyone. She was alone in Santa Fé, in the universe. Everybody else was hostile and stupid and silent.
“I’m going home,” she said at last.
“I think I’d better not see you any more,” he answered, as if that were an answer.
“All right, if you think so,” she said coldly. “It’s up to you.” It would be dull, not having him around to take her to parties.