"Thanks."
I got outside and sat on my windowsill, about ten feet from him.
"I remember," I said, "the first time it happened to me."
"What happened?"
"The first time I was really in love. Her name was Ruth. She was a little gal. Light-brown hair and the kind of eyes that look up at you. Little breasts and shy, inquisitive hands. I—"
"Save it for the magazines."
"I was crazy about her. But I had to go to college and I couldn't afford to see her often. Couldn't afford to take her to the proms. A Christmas vacation came around and we threw a party at the house of a friend whose folks had gone south. We all got tight. I missed her when I was dancing—and started looking. I found her upstairs—in a bedroom—with a guy in my class. After that—"
"—you knew they were just like trolley cars."
"When I was working on the New Yorker—I fell again. A gal from Holyoke—"
"Horse manure to Holyoke."