Connie and Rose of Sharon leaned back against the cab, and the hot wind tumbling through the tent struck the backs of their heads, and the tarpaulin whipped and drummed above them. They spoke together in low tones, pitched to the drumming canvas, so that no one could hear them. When Connie spoke he turned his head and spoke into her ear, and she did the same to him. She said, “Seems like we wasn’t never gonna do nothin’ but move. I’m so tar’d.”
He turned his head to her ear. “Maybe in the mornin’. How’d you like to be alone now?” In the dusk his hand moved out and stroked her hip. She said, “Don’t. You’ll make me crazy as a loon. Don’t do that.” And she turned her head to hear his response.
“Maybe—when ever’body’s asleep.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But wait till they get to sleep. You’ll make me crazy, an’ maybe they won’t get to sleep.”
“I can’t hardly stop,” he said.
“I know. Me neither. Le’s talk about when we get there; an’ you move away ’fore I get crazy.”
He shifted away a little. “Well, I’ll get to studyin’ nights right off,” he said. She sighed deeply. “Gonna get one a them books that tells about it an’ cut the coupon, right off.”
“How long, you think?” she asked.
“How long what?”
“How long ’fore you’ll be makin’ big money an’ we got ice?”