"I don't have a tailor," I said. "Your lips are so red, Jean."
She frowned. "Slowly, sailor."
Then a waitress was there, and I saw how red her lips were, too, and I realized it was another of the old vices I'd forgotten, cosmetics.
"Just coffee, for me, black," Jean said. "Golden boy over there will have a beef barbecue, probably, won't you, Fred?"
"I guess," I said. "And some milk, cow's milk."
Jean laughed. "It's my money. Have canary milk."
"Not tonight," I said.
The waitress went away, and there was a noticeable period of silence. Jean was tracing some design on the table top with her index finger. Her nails, too, were painted, I saw. I liked the effect of that.
She looked up, and faced me gravely, "Fred, you're a very attractive gent, which you undoubtedly know. Are you connected with pictures?"
I shook my head. "Just a traveler, a tourist."