. ." She brushed away a tear. He had never seen her cry.
"Oh." She shook her head. "Who trains who?" she asked the window in a
tight voice. Oliver swallowed. He couldn't speak. This was happening
too fast.
"Sex," she said, looking back at him. "There's sex and there's
love--two different things. Sometimes they overlap. Sometimes, if
you're real lucky, they overlap a lot. Most people settle for a little
of one or a little of the other." She pushed her chair back. "I love
you," she said. She stood up. "Oh, well."
She regained control. "Good night, Oliver." It was a dismissal.
"Good night," he said obediently and bent his head. The mistress word
wasn't there any more. He felt terrible--honest, but terrible. He tried
to fix the image of her walking away down the sidewalk. He had an urge
to run after her, to sink to his knees with his arms around her hips,
to make her happy, but a dumb veto held him in his chair. It wasn't
right, or it wouldn't have remained right. He stayed seated and
finished his dinner. Claudine was tactfully silent.
He paid and climbed the stairs to George's table. "The lady's gone.
I've taken the high road," he said gloomily.
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