"My God, Olive Oil, she was . . ." George's eyes expanded. "I mean,
bazumas!"
"Yes," Oliver said. "Bazumas."
"That dress! That color!"
"How about a little Courvoisier, George?"
An hour later, he lurched home and put on _La Traviata._ George had
diverted him with a long story about how his father had made his whole
family jump through hoops during his last years and then had snuck off
to Atlantic City and spent most of his money before he collapsed. "The
old goat," George said, annoyed all over again, partially approving.
Sad glorious voices filled the apartment. Oliver began to hate himself.
What the hell good was he to anybody? The walnut box caught his eye,
shining and complete. It angered him, refuted his mood. He put it on
the floor. "Fuck it," he said and lifted his right foot high over the
box. Verdi let out a loud warning meow. "What?" Oliver demanded of the
cat. "What's the matter with you?" The cat took two steps forward and
let out another long low sound of protest.
"Huh?" Oliver bent over and put the box back on the table. "All right,
all right." He opened it. The bronze valentine stared up at him.
"Shit," he said. Verdi rubbed against his ankle.
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