“Tonight, Elma. The Thimble Club.”
“Come pick me up!”
Breathless and flushed, she pushed through, made it to a far curb, looked back as one looks at the ocean for a last time before going inland, and hustled, laughing to herself, down the avenue, counting on her fingers the appointments she had in the next week at the Elm Street Society, the Women’s Patriotic League, the Sewing Basket, and the Elite Theatre Club.
The hours blazed to their finish. The court house clock rang once.
Mr. Alexander stood on the street corner, glancing at his watch doubtfully and shaking it, muttering under his breath. A woman was standing on the opposite corner, and after ten minutes of waiting, Mr. Alexander crossed over. “I beg your pardon, but I think my watch is wrong,” he called, approaching. “Could you give me the correct time?”
“John!” she cried.
“Elma!” he cried.
“I was standing here all the time,” she said.
“And I was standing over there!”
“You’ve got a new suit!”
“That’s a new dress!”
“New hat.”
“So is yours.”
“New shoes.”
“How do yours fit?”
“Mine hurt.”
“So do mine.”
“I bought tickets for a play Saturday night for us, Elma! And reservations for the Green Town picnic next month! What’s that perfume you’re wearing?”
“What’s that cologne you’ve got on?”
“No wonder we didn’t recognize each other!”
They looked at one another for a long time.
“Well, let’s get home. Isn’t it a beautiful day?”
They squeaked along in their new shoes. “Yes, beautiful!” they both agreed, smiling. But then they glanced at each other out of the corners of their eyes and suddenly looked away, nervously.
Their house was blue-dark; it was like entering a cave after the fresh green spring afternoon.
“How about a little lunch?”
“Not hungry. You?”
“Me neither.”
“I sure like my new shoes.”
“Mine, too.”
“Well, what’ll we do the rest of the day?”