"About like Utah."
He considered that. "Jesus," he said. "Take it easy! Be over by and by."
I got dressed and went downstairs.
There were people—maybe two dozen—in the Knight's Bar, for lunch, resuscitation, or the pelt of the dog that bit them.
Not Yvonne, though. A bit early.
The city was shockingly quiet. When the traffic lights changed, sometimes, nothing else did. You could hear one car pass on the street. Even the buses seemed enfeebled: their special arrangements for traumatizing man roared, ground, and hammered only at long intervals.
The Musak was trying hymns, or an unreasonable facsimile thereof.
With twenty-one cold shrimps, a couple of ounces of mayonnaise, some lettuce, and a few gills of iced coffee inside me, I felt better.
When I got out on the sixteenth soaking pit I discovered Yvonne knocking on my door—my hall door, for a wonder. After a little bickering, I went back to the cold restaurant with her. Not too much bickering.