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She was glad not to be baking in it anymore, or feeling the fiberglass splinters 64 invading her rear end from sitting on the bleachers. “How are you feeling?” She asked. On the bench was set a quartern measure of gin, a crust of bread, and a slice of cheese. She saw herself building up a life upon that —a life restrained, kindly, beautiful, a little pathetic and altogether dignified; a life of great disciplines and suppressions and extensive reserves. She had recourse to the torn off strip of petticoat again, and blowing her nose with an air of determination, sniffed back the tears. I don't know anything about you. Larry fell off the truck the Wednesday night before she planned on leaving. “Why?” He inquired.
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