"Oh," she said. "Oh. I was drunk last night, Fred. I'm not in love."
Silence. That attraction of hers pulling at me like some localized gravity, silence, and the beating of my heart. Silence, my hands trembling, my knees aching.
"I'd like to see some fights," I said. "Would you like to?"
She frowned. "Not particularly." She stared at me, shook her head, and looked away.
"Well," I said, "I haven't finished the want ads."
"Of course," she said. "Get right back to them, Freddy. You never know when you'll find a bargain."
They weren't very interesting. I kept seeing her standing next to the window, looking unhappy, frustrated, somehow. I kept seeing the soft fabric of the suit clinging to her beautiful body and the proud grace of her posture.
I went back to the house, and she was sitting on the davenport near the fireplace. She looked up without expression.
I asked, "Is there a library around here?"
She sighed, and rose. She said, "Follow me."