Clem Gibson was someone in the town. He ran the bank, he owned a car, and he changed his shirt twice a week.
Myra slowed down a little and flashed him a smile.
“Why, Miss Hogan, you are lookin’ swell,” Gibson said.
This line of talk pleased Myra. She said, “Aw, you’re kiddin’.”
Gibson beamed behind his horn glasses. “I wouldn’t kid you, Miss Hogan, honest.”
Myra made to move on. “Well, it’s nice of you to say so,” she said. “I’ve just got to get goin’. My Pa’s waitin’ for me.”
Gibson came down the two steps. “I was going to suggest—that is—I wanted to ask you… He paused, embarrassed.
Myra looked up at him, her long black lashes curling above her eyes. “Yes?”
“Look, Miss Hogan, suppose you an’ me go places sometime.”
Myra shook her head. She thought he’d got a hell of a nerve. Go out with him and have his horse-faced wife starting a beef. He was crazy. Myra had enough sense to leave the married men alone. They were only after one thing, and she wasn’t giving anything away. “Pa just wouldn’t stand for it,” she said. “He don’t like married men takin’ me out. Ain’t he soft?”