slid inside. The sergeant walked around the auto and crawled in next to her. Then he pulled Bertha to him and kissed her passionately. She sighed happily. Their love-making continued there in the parked car for several minutes, all the while building intensity. Suddenly, the Marine let out a vicious bellow; it was a wild, hysterical, near-scream. Then he hit Bertha full in the face, opened the car door and kicked her onto the sidewalk. "You're a goddamned fag!" he screamed. Then he started the engine and drove off amid the screech of burning rubber.

Bertha was sitting in a crumpled heap on the sidewalk, tears streaming down her cheeks. The side of her head-the place where he'd hit her-ached with a dull, throbbing pain. Her dress had ripped along the seam, exposing her entire leg. She heard heavy footsteps running toward her. Suddenly, Bertha felt herself being lifted to her feet by strong, gentle hands.

"You all right, Miss?" a voice asked.

She recognized the voice, and turning, found herself in the arms of Frank Peterson. Bertha nearly fainted with shock.

"Oh, no!" Bernie wailed silently. Then he realized that Frank might not recognize him. Bertha and Bernie looked very different. The little man uttered a

silent prayer.

"I think I'm all right," Bertha told Frank. Her reaction, however, was quite different from Bernie's. She looked up into the big man's face and knew she was in love. She had never told Bernie before, but her eyes had also seen Frank across a cafeteria table. She had listened to his deep, masculine voice so filled with warmth. She had, it seemed, always been in love with the big man. Yet, for Bernie's sake, it would be better if Frank failed to recognize him.

"Your face is banged up," Frank said. "Why don't you come over to my place and I'll put some cold packs on it?"

"Don't do it!" Bernie urged.

"I don't really think I should," Bertha told Frank.

The big man smiled warmly. "I promise not to make a pass at you."

"Well, all right," she answered.

"I want to go somewhere and die," Bernie wept.

Frank took her gently by the arm and they moved to his parked car. A few minutes later he unlocked his apartment, flipped on the light, then helped Bertha to a sofa. Frank walked into the bathroom, returning a moment later carrying an ice-bag.

"You know," he said with a smile, "I don't even know your name." "Bertha," she answered.

He moved into the kitchen and began filling the bag with ice-cubes. "Bertha . . . I like that name. Somehow, it sort of fits you. Soft and femininelike."

The words cut through her like a knife. She wanted him so badly terribly, terribly much.

"For my sake, please remember," Bernie urged her.

Frank then seated himself beside her on the sofa, his massive hands gently pressing the ice-bag against her swollen cheek. "Even with a busted face, you're beautiful," he said.

Bertha felt like weeping. She had been chased by men before, but always they represented only a fling, something important only for a moment, something to prove her own identity. Now, she was in love, but could do nothing

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