"Sorry." He didn't sound sorry.
I was cold. I mean that kind of weather, it's always cold in those places. You know around New York in August? It hits eighty, eighty-five, ninety. All the places have air-conditioning and what they really want is for you to wear a shirt and tie.
But I like to walk a lot. You would, too, you know. And you can't walk around much in long pants and a suit coat and all that stuff. Not around there. Not in August. And so then, when I went into a bar, it'd have one of those built-in freezers for the used-car salesmen with their dates, or maybe their wives, all dressed up. For what? But I froze.
"Mars," the girl breathed. "Mars."
I began to itch again. "Want to dance?"
"They don't have a license," she said. "Byron, I didn't know you'd been to Mars! Please tell me about it."
"It was all right," I said.
That was a lie.
She was interested. She forgot to smile. It made her look nicer. She said, "I knew a man—my brother-in-law—he was my husband's brother—I mean my ex-husband—"
"I get the idea."