Dont I, Paul? her eyes ask.
Her answer is a crash of jazz from the palm-hidden orchestra. Crimson Gardens is a body whose blood flows to a clot upon the dance floor. Art and Helen clot. Soon, Bona and Paul. Paul finds her a little stiff, and his mind, wandering to Helen (silly little kid who wants every highball spoon her hands touch, for a souvenir), supple, perfect little dancer, wishes for the next dance when he and Art will exchange.
Bona knows that she must win him to herself.
“Since when have men like you grown cold?”
“The first philosopher.”
“I thought you were a poet—or a gym director.”
“Hence, your failure to make love.”
Bona’s eyes flare. Water. Grow red about the rims. She would like to tear away from him and dash across the clotted floor.
“What do you mean?”
“Mental concepts rule you. If they were flush with mine—good. I dont believe they are.”