She said, "Oh" and went back to tracing the design. I thought her finger trembled.
A very dim smile on her face, and she didn't look away from the table top. "You've been—picked up before, undoubtedly."
"No. What kind of talk is this, Jean?"
Now, she looked up. "Crazy talk. You're no New Yorker, Freddy lad. You're a Middle Westerner; you can't fool me. Fresh from the farm and craving cow's milk."
"I never saw a cow in my life," I told her truthfully, "though I've heard about them. What makes you think I'm from a farm?"
"Your freshness, your complexion and—everything about you."
The waitress brought our food, then, and I didn't answer. I tried to keep my eyes away from Jean as I ate; I had a mission, here, and no time for attachments beyond the casual. I was sure, even then, that loving Jean Decker would never qualify as casual.
She drank her coffee and smoked; I ate.
She asked, "Where are you staying, in town, Fred? I'm sober enough to drive, now."
"I'll get public transportation," I said. "You get home, and to bed."