And yet it wasn’t her fault. It was his, and he ought to be shot.

“Look — ” he said, “you don’t want to see that phony Egyptian thing.” He nodded across the street to where one of the expensive, quality movie houses was showing a European picture. “How about going to see that, instead?”

“If you want to, I’d like that.”

And she was so damned ready to follow his lead! He almost tested her by changing his mind again, but all he did was to say “Let’s go, then,” and start across the street. She followed him immediately, as though she hadn’t expected him to wait for her.

She waited at the lobby doors as he bought the tickets, and sat quietly beside him throughout the picture. He made no move to hold her hand or put his arm on the back of her seat, and halfway through the picture he suddenly realized that he wouldn’t know what to do with her after it was over. It would be too early to take her home and thank her for the lovely evening, and yet too late to simply leave her adrift, even if he could think of some graceful way of doing it. He was tempted to simply excuse himself, get up, and walk out of the theater. Somehow, for all its clumsiness and cruelty, that seemed like the best thing to do. But he held the thought for only a few seconds before he realized he couldn’t do it.

Why not? he thought. Am I such a wonderful fellow that it’d blight her life forever?

But it wasn’t that. It wasn’t what he was, it was what she was. He could have been the hunchback of Notre Dame and this same situation would still exist. He had put her in it, and it was up to him to see she wasn’t hurt as the result of something he’d done.

But what was he going to do with her? He chainsmoked angrily through the rest of the picture, shifting back and forth in his seat.

The picture reached the scene where they’d come in, and she leaned over. “Do you want to go now?”

Her voice, after ninety minutes of silence, startled him. It was as gentle as it had been when he first spoke to her — before the realization of what was happening had quite come home to her. Now, he supposed, she’d had time to grow calm again.

“All right.” He found himself reluctant to leave. Once out on the street, the awkward, inevitable “What’ll we do now?” would come, and he had no answer. But he stood up and they left the theater.

Standing under the marquee, she said, “It was a good picture, wasn’t it?”

He pushed the end of a cigarette into his mouth, preoccupied. “Do you have to go home now, or anything?” he mumbled around it.

She shook her head. “No, I live by myself. But you’ve probably got something to do tonight. I’ll just catch a bus here. Thank you for taking me to the movie.”

“No — no, that’s all right,” he said quickly. Damn it, she’d been expecting him to try and get rid of her. “Don’t do that.” And now he had to propose something for them to do. “Are you hungry?”

“A little.”

“All right, then, let’s go find some place to eat.”

“There’s a very good delicatessen just around the corner.”

“All right.” For some reason, he took her hand. It was small, but not fragile. She seemed neither surprised nor shocked. Wondering what the devil had made him do that, he walked with her down to the delicatessen.

The place was still fairly empty, and he led her to a booth in the back. They sat down facing each other, and a waiter came and took their orders. When he left Lucas realized he should have thought of what would happen when he came in here with her.

They were cut off. The high plywood back behind him separated them from the rest of the room. On one side of them was a wall, and the other, barely leaving people clearance to slide in and out of the booth’s far seat, was an air conditioner. He had let himself and the girl be maneuvered into a pocket where they had nothing to do but sit and stare at each other while the waited for their food.

What was there to do or say? Looking at that hairdo and the metallic pink polish on her nails, he couldn’t imagine what she could possibly talk about, or like, that he could find the faintest interest in.

“Have you been in the city long?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No, I haven’t.”

That seemed to be that.

He’d thrown his cigarette away, somewhere. He knocked a fresh one out of the pack in his shirt pocket and lit it, wishing the waiter would hurry up so the could at least eat. He stole a glance at his watch. It was only six o’clock.

“Could — could I have a cigarette, please?” she asked, her voice and expression uncertain, and he jumped.

“What?” He thrust the pack out clumsily. “Oh — gee, Edith, I’m sorry! Sure — here. I didn’t…” Didn’t what? Didn’t even offer her the courtesy of a cigarette. Didn’t stop to wonder whether she smoked or not. Treated her as if she was a pet dog.

He felt peculiarly embarrassed and guilty. Worse now, than ever before.

She took the cigarette and he lit it for her quickly.

She smiled a little nervously. “Thank you. I come from Connecticut, originally. Where’re you from, Luke?”

She must’ve known how I felt about her, he was thinking. It must have been sticking out all over me. But she let me go on, because… Because why? Because I’m the man of her dreams?

“New Jersey,” he said. “From a farm.”

“I always wished I could live on a farm. Are you working here?”

Because I’m probably the first guy that’s talked to her since she got here, that’s why. I may not be much, but I’m all she’s got.

“I am for the time being. I work for an espresso house down in the Village.”

He realized he was starting to tell her things he hadn’t intended to. But he had to talk, now, and besides, this wasn’t what he’d planned — not at all.

“I’ve only been down there once or twice,” she said. “It must be a fascinating place.”

“I guess it is, in a way. I’m going to be starting school next year, though, and I won’t be seeing much of it.”

“Oh — what’re you going to study, Luke?”

So it came out, bit by bit, more and more fluently. They talked while they ate, and words seemed to jump out of him. He told her about the farm, and about high school, and about the espresso house.

They finished eating and went for a walk, up Central Park South and then turning uptown, and he continued to talk. She walked beside him, her feet in their slippers making soft, padding sounds on the asphalt pavement.

After a while, it was time to take her home. She lived on the West Side, near the gas plant in the Sixties, on the third floor of a tenement. He walked her up stairs, to her door, and suddenly he was out of talk.

He stopped, as abruptly as he’d started, and stood looking down at her, wondering what the devil had gotten into him. The roots of her hair were very dark, he saw.

“I’ve been bending your ear,” he said uncomfortably.

She shook her head. “No. No, you’re a very interesting person. I didn’t mind at all. It’s — ” She looked up at him, and dropped even the minimum of pretense the she had managed to keep throughout the afternoon and evening. “It’s nice to have somebody talk to me.”

He had nothing to say to that. They stood in front of her door, and the silence grew between them.

“I had a very good time,” she said at last.

No, you didn’t, he thought. You had a miserable time. The worst thing that ever happened to you was when I spoke to you in front of the lion cages. And now I’m going to walk down those stairs and never call you up or see you again, and that’ll be worse, I guess. I’ve really messed things up. “Look — have you got a phone?” he found himself saying.

She nodded quickly. “Yes, I do. Would you like the number?”

“I’ll write it down.” He found a piece of paper in his wallet and a pencil in his shirt pocket. He wrote the number down, put his wallet and his pencil back, and once again they simply stood there.