me. No matter how wild that last hassel was, you always call up and say something madly sentimental like, "Hey, we eating here or out tomorrow night before the show?" And I say thoughtfully, "Oh, there, I guess," instead of, "I've been hatching this phone like an egg! Let me run over there this instant barefoot on glass!" The point being, I can only assume you want me around or you'd not call. So here I am telling you that if you want me, you'll also have to take the cling, the dote and the sob because we all go together. It's a package deal, Buster.

All right. Now, glue your hat on because what's coming next will make you want to tear your hair out. I'm going to tell you just how I like you so you'll understand exactly what went on here last Saturday night while you were out. It's important that you know and I've apparently got to tell you because I don't think you have the faintest smattering of imagination. Not a damned jot.

Don't wince: this'll take just a minute. I'm not going into that wonderful efficiency of yours; the way you sweep so thoroughly and check each item on the grocery slip and saw a board precisely the right length and stay within your budget without a single bitten fingernail. Superbly careful without a qualm. And so thoroughly honest I can't imagine you ever having blushed or felt ashamed. Don't go away! I have to irritate you saying this because I want you to know I think you're handsome inside, too!

And you're clean. Go on and rage at such a remark but that's what you are.

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Where it's only hygiene in other people, it's actually a matter of beauty in you. You're almost inhumanly clean and neat; the very fabric of your trimness is immaculate. If there were gods, they'd be no neater, no fresher, no cleaner than you. I always feel very mortal around you, and all pores and armpits, ashamed I'm me and afraid our auras overlap before I'm prepared. So sweetly clean! I've taken deep joy in it and felt great luck to be near you. This sounds embarrassing to me, too, but I'm afraid I've darned good reasons for mentioning it.

Not long ago you began to get moody and I gathered you were in the process of missing Helen's Place. You used to go there all the time before you met me. I didn't like the place so I scrambled around to buy more beer at the grocery and serve it to you with the air full of smoke, the tray full of butts and a one watt globe giving more gloom than glow. You snarled at me across the kitchen table: "It's not the beer, stupid." I asked innocently what then and you said those magic words, "It's the atmosphere down there and the people. Just sitting and watching them and talking to them and all." My old ears perked up; I inquired about this and all; I wanted to know what this and all consisted of, what this and all had that I didn't. Wrong tack, of course. You broke a cup and called me jealous and silly and always, always, always getting my godam feelings hurt. I saw your point and admitted this was all quite true. You really blew your top then. You'd gotten into the habit of resenting everything I said

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