We suffer through the two pictures. The little kids make such a racket you can hardly hear, and the matron keeps shining the light in your eyes so you can’t see. She shines it on the blonde, who is practically sitting in Nick’s lap, and hisses at her to get back. I’m not going to do this again, ever.
We go out and Nick says, “Let’s have a coke.” He’s walking along with the blonde, and instead of walking beside me the redhead tries to catch hold of his other arm. This sort of burns me up. I mean, I don’t really like her, but I paid for her and everything.
Nick shakes her off and calls over his shoulder to me, “Come on, chicken, pull your own weight!”
The girls laugh, on cue as usual, and I begin getting really sore. Nick got me into this. The least he can do is shut up.
We walk into a soda bar, and I slap down thirty cents and say, “Two cokes, please.”
“Hey, hey! The last of the big spenders!” says Nick. More laughter. I’d just as soon sock him right now, but I pick up my money and say, “O.K., wise guy, treat’s on you.” Nick shrugs and tosses down a buck as if he had hundreds of them.
The two girls drink their cokes and talk across Nick. I finish mine in two or three gulps, and finally we can walk them to the subway. Nick is gabbing away about how he’ll come out to Coney one weekend, and I’m standing there with my hands in my pockets.
“Goo’bye, Bashful!” coos the redhead to me, and the two of them disappear, cackling, down the steps. I start across Fourteenth Street as soon as the light changes, without bothering to look if Nick is coming. He can go rot.
Along Union Square he’s beside me, acting as if everything is peachy fine dandy. “That was a great show. Pretty good fun, huh?”
I just keep walking.