The farmers settled down noisily to their cards and beer; when Orville finished his meal he felt locked in himself; the fire was dying down; the place had lost its welcome; he talked with the girl as she refilled his glass: he could not return home, he talked about E, about farmers he had known: the girl was about twenty, twenty-two, plain, blonde, her hair in a braided loop on top of her head. Two of her front teeth were missing. But she had a neat span around her waist and nice legs: she was a woman to sleep with.
"Pastry?" she asked.
"Later," he said, aware of how soon he would be trapped in the war, a low-flying plane part of that realization.
Later ...
She waited on the farmers; he had pastry and coffee and drowsed by the sleepy fire; presently, with a scraping of shoes and chairs, the farmers left; a lone customer remained. A man who had the appearance of a doctor, ate at a small table, spooning a bowl of soup, the steam fogging his steel-rimmed glasses; the dog lay beside him as if they were old friends.
When Orville stopped at the cash register he counted clumsily, thinking in terms of dollars: he was pleased, as he fumbled with the bills, that Claude had provided him with so much. The waitress noticed his crammed billfold, cupped her chin in one hand, and smiled as if the francs had appreciative eyes.
"Do you have a room?"
"For tonight?"
"Yes, tonight."
"I think so ... just a moment, I'll make sure."