"I am not worrying," Ditsy says toneless-like. "It does not matter either way. Nothing does not matter. Any more."
The way she tags that "any more" on to it is horrible to listen to. It has a dead, flat, hopeless sound and I keep thinking, if I look down, I will see it laying there on the bath mat spread out on its back with its eyes rolled up.
It gets Jimmie, too, because it is clear that if Ditsy had batted him on the bean with a lead sock he would not be more took back.
"What do you mean?" he says. "What do you mean?" like that, see, with a up on the end.
"I mean it is no good," Ditsy says. "I cannot stand it. You are not Jimmie Winkie any more. You are somebody else. Somebody else I do not know. Somebody else who I do not want to know. I hope you do lose tomorrow," she says and her words bump into each other and bunch up, like the field in a steeple-chase taking the first hedge. "I hope you lose tomorrow," she says, "and the next day, and the next and the next and next and next, and we can go back to that two-room flat and eat beef stew and take turns washing the dishes and put toothpicks in the windows to keep them from rattling, and play pinochle and watch the car lights come over the Freeway and, maybe, have a pint of ice cream for a treat and ... and ... be ... happy"—and her voice breaks in the middle and she puts her face in her hands and starts crying.
It is a awful experience to see a girl cry. It makes you feel like all your joints has swelled and your ears and feet belong to a two-humped camel.
Jimmie says, "You want me to lose?" like he is suffering from hallucinations.
Ditsy keeps on crying.
I gives her my handkerchief and wonders if I ought to pat at her or something.