“Yes.”
“The prices will have to be those of Scotch and sodas,” he warned.
“Certainly,” I told him.
We finished dinner and consumed pale ginger ale. She drank hers and pretended to get a little tipsy, watching me like a hawk when she thought I wasn’t looking.
I drank my pale ginger ale and pretended to get a little tipsy, watching her when I knew damn well she wasn’t looking.
It was a Saturday night. While this was more expensive than a movie, it had more suspense, and, as she had so aptly pointed out, the script hadn’t been passed on by the Breen office.
When the floor show started, she started for the rest-room, detoured, glided out of the door and was gone for twenty minutes.
When she came back, she said, “Miss me? I’ve been ill. I get that way when I try to pour it in too fast.”
“Sure I missed you,” I assured her, “but there was a striptease on. I liked it. She was beautiful.”
“Oh, so you fall for the striptease numbers.”