Lora ate her salad carefully and to the end; it tasted fresh and good after all the meat and vegetables she had eaten. She knew she was not drunk, for she heard all that Steve said and was able to decide what she agreed with and what she didn’t. He was talking about the war again. That was nonsense; why did he have the war on his mind? Pete had gone to war. And got killed maybe. All right, what if he had, to hell with him, not a pretty sentiment, but to hell with him; if he hadn’t gone to war he’d have gone somewhere else, and left her like that. Not that it was Pete’s fault, she had nothing against Pete — no, if you were going to talk about fault she would have something to say that wouldn’t be forgotten very soon. She wouldn’t think about that though — she had sworn she would not and she never would. It would have been a year old now — no, it would be — it would be — she couldn’t figure it. Who was that? Oh, it was Steve; what did he mean asking her what was the matter with her? Well... would you believe it, he was right, she was crying, there were tears in her eyes, she could feel them...
She wiped her eyes with her napkin, laughed aloud into Steve’s face, got up and pushed her chair back, and walked across to the couch. Stretching herself out, she put her hands up behind her head and through half shut eyes looked at Steve as he got up from his chair and came towards her.
“No one but a pig would eat as much as that,” she said. “I’m ashamed of myself. I think I’ll go to sleep while you do the dishes.”
He stood beside the couch looking down at her.
“Of course you know—” he said, and stopped. He said it again, and stopped again: “Of course you know—”
She felt removed and skeptical, and her head hurt.
“Of course I know what?”
He opened his mouth but said nothing, and then he sat down on the couch, clumsily bumping against her thigh; she didn’t move. His eyes were bloodshot and he kept looking at her armpits, as she lay with her hands back of her head. Let him, she thought defiantly, I can’t help it if this dress shows spots.
“You know I’m a virgin,” he said.
She laughed directly into his face, as she had before she left the table, but his expression did not change.
“So am I,” she laughed.
He stared at her, and burst out, “But you said—”
“I was just talking. You had no right to ask.”
“I don’t believe it. I tell you I don’t believe it.” His voice trembled and his hands wavered towards her and then dropped again. “If you deceived me — if you made me think — oh, my god—”
And all at once he fell forward beside her on the couch, clutching her dress in his fingers, burying his face next to her body, trembling all over so violently that the couch shook under them; his shoulders went up and down in spasmodic jerks, and unseemly muffled noises came from his buried face. Good heavens, he’s crying, Lora thought, now if that isn’t funny I’d like to know what is. That’s funny, his head and shoulder bumping against me like that, up and down, just listen to him, he sounds terrible. His head was rubbing against her breast, and all at once it ceased to be the head of a crying man, a strange object to be commented on and thought about, and became something directly personal to her; her breast, beginning to enjoy it, swelled toward the pressure with its own welcome, and was encouraged by her hand, which came down and buried its fingers in the hair of his head, holding him against her. “Oh, my god, oh, my god,” he was saying over and over, like a phonograph record with its spiral impeded, unable to leave its groove. Within her was a deep displeasure and a profound irritation, at the very moment that her other hand was working at the fastening of her dress, to uncover the breast to him. Neither the displeasure nor the hand’s betrayal was present in her consciousness; indeed, consciousness had given up the affair altogether, saying in effect, as defeated and embarrassed it turned its back on the painful scene, “Very well, have it your way, but I’m off, I don’t intend to get involved in this sort of thing. See you later.”
So it came to pass that the venerable and somewhat withered bloom of Steve’s virginity had its petals scattered to a September zephyr. Lora did not stay the night. She slept, but later awoke into darkness and, slipping quietly out of bed and groping her way to the kitchen, saw by her watch that it was half-past two. If she stayed there, she reflected, she would lose all day Sunday, and she simply must get that tan dress fixed and her stockings darned. Ten minutes later, dressed but drowsy, she let herself out quietly without disturbing Steve’s gentle and regular snores. Outside his car was standing at the curb and she felt something should be done about it — wouldn’t it be stolen or confiscated or something? At least she would turn on the lights, she knew that was required, but she couldn’t find the switch and so gave it up and went on home.