Woman Aroused | Page 2

bed Sunday mornings; sometimes I can even read through the entire Sunday Times before I get up.
When Flo finished her coffee I stood up and the counterman said, "Twenty cents." I only had twelve cents in change, so I took out my wallet, gave him a bill as Flo said, "Georgie, play Old Black Magic before we go."
"It's late," I told her.
"But the number does things to me," she said, taking a nickel from the change in my hand, walking over to the gaudy juke box, a coy sway to her slim hips.
The counterman gave me eighty cents in change as she came dancing back, holding out her arms, both of us watching her. "Want to dance?"
"Oh, stop it."
She turned to the counterman, "Dance this one with me, handsome?"
He laughed and the drunk at the end of the counter turned his back on us. Flo began spinning about, her long coat billowing out to show her good legs, even the lace garters on her thighs. She was too much of an exhibitionist to dance well. She's always been like that, thinking more of showing off than the rhythm. When the record was over, she blew a kiss at the counterman--who had been taking in her legs--said, "Sweet dreams, honeyboy," and made a grand exit onto Lexington Avenue.
Following her, I said, "Damn it, Flo, why don't you stop being cute, Bohemian, or whatever you think you are? Dancing around in the great tent you call a coat, showing your legs like a seventeen-year-old brat." I was punching a bit low--Flo was hitting 34 and starting to get sensitive about her years.
"George, don't be such a stupid snob," she said, reaching up and pinching my cheek. "The crack about my coat I'll skip, you have absolutely no sense of what's smart. But where's your romance?"
"Not in a coffee pot!" I said, as she thumbed her nose at me. I was so furious we walked straight home and all the newsstands we passed were closed. When we reached our house--that had been the garage at one time where we kept the Pierce-Arrow and which was now her house--she quickly undressed and lay across the bed, naked, leafing through an issue of Harper's Bazaar. Flo had a long bony, small-breasted figure, ideal for a clothes horse. Her hand- and toe-nails were painted an odd shade of deep red; little islands of color against the whiteness of her smooth skin. For a woman so concerned with clothes, she could shed them with amazing speed.
I undressed, then stopped abruptly. I took out my wallet, went through my pockets. Flo asked, "What's wrong?" I kept going through my pockets and she said, "Stop screwing up your face. Now what?"
"Goddamn it, I gave that guy a ten dollar bill and he only gave me eighty cents in change. The bastard!"
She rested the magazine on her flat stomach. "You sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. All I had was two tens. Had a feeling in the back of my mind all the time something was wrong, but I was so upset about you making a damn fool of yourself...."
"No, you don't--you were the dope--don't put it on me. Dress and go back there. He'll remember you."
"He'll welcome me with open arms I I'd look like a sap. It's late, he must have plenty of tens in the till. Mark it down as nine bucks lost."
"At least call him."
"No," I said, glad she was annoyed now.
"God, you're always yelling about money--call him!" Flo snapped.
"Call whom? You remember the name or store number? Let's forget it," I said, putting on my pajamas.
"At least try calling. I'll phone," she said, sitting up.
"Go to sleep. If you hadn't acted the fool this never..."
She exploded, her voice shrill as she yelled, "Oh, now it's my fault you're a dummy! Why I!...
I saw the bust-up coming. I sat on the bed beside her, said gently, "Let's forget it, Flo. It was my fault."
"Forget it? It's okay for you to call me a fool, shoot your refined mouth off. But me, if I open.... My God, we argue over everything, even a lousy cup of coffee. Why if we had had a baby, he'd be neurotic with your constant nagging and..."
"Don't start that baby routine. Wasn't my fault we never had a child."
"I suppose it was mine!!! she said, her sharp face contorted as the tears came.
I put my arms around her. "Look, darling, forget it. We're trying to make a go of..."
She broke out of my arms, jumped off the bed, screamed, "Some chance of making a go of anything, if a lousy five-cent cup of coffee, if nine bucks, can start this!"
"Let me tell you something," I said, my voice rising. "If you'd only stop being the big career woman, if we had a real home,