a second glance at his slim face, firm chin, pleasantly awry dark hair, I changed my mind. Still, I was contented enough when he lit his smoke, returned the lighter and said no more.

Sometime later I deviated from my brooding when he again put a cigarette in his mouth and began absently fumbling in his pockets. I reached over, flicking the yellow-tongued flame under the end of his smoke. Star-lighted eyes, as he looked his thanks, held an arresting pathos.

"Care to talk about it?" I asked.

He gave a nervous laugh, "Does it show that much? It's only that my wife's been home with her sick mother two months, and no prospects of her returning for a long time yet."

"I'm sorry for you," I said. "My own mate died suddenly a year ago, and I can understand your feelings."

"Oh Gosh!" he exclaimed, I am sorry! I should be attempting to cheer you up." So he's straight. I thought. So much the better. I can be friends with him with no on-the-make entering into it.

We carried on a running conversation lasting an hour or two I crawled into myself now and then, thinking to break off. But he'd start things up again, seemingly determined to forget about himself in forcing me to forget about myself. Finally, I got up. He immediately arose too.

"Am I boring you," he asked.

"No." I admitted, then, "but I've got to drive down to Tijuana on a little business errand for my firm this weekend and I'm debating when to start. I don't relish the trip, believe me."

"Maybe it would be better for you if I went along," he suggested in a timid, hopeful voice.

Who's helping whom? I thought. Then, "I really wouldn't mind," I said. "But I'd sort-of considered shoving off for down there tonight."

"Say, that'd be great," he said. "Could we stop at my place for my PJ's and toothbrush?"

As he slid beside me in my little foreign sportscar, he commended my taste in boyish glee. And as he eased himself out to stride up the walk to his apartment, I noticed for the first time how tall and erect he was and what pleasing coördination he had.

On the way down the coast, he told me of his graduation from a small nearby denominational college and of marrying his wife on graduation day, and of their first year together. I couldn't help marking that, although he seemed unaware of it, in his talk about his family life, there appeared no vibrant togetherness that a real conjugal life should have.

We talked of many things rolling along and we stopped now and then for a drink at a wayside tavern. Arriving fairly late this side of the border, I decided it best to remain at a San Ysidro motel. I tried my best to get twin beds, for I saw nothing, after a year of sleeping alone, in bunking with this straight individual, gloomy about the absence of his wife. But we were forced because of full bookings everywhere, to accept a small room with one bed,

We slid quickly between the sheets and I turned my back. He talked on awhile and I answered in sleepy monosyllables. Then, when I felt him turning, I turned onto my back. I'd grown accustomed to falling asleep that way. And when Duane was with me, he would creep over resting a cheek on my shoulder. Bill had not turned completely away from me, but was also lying on his back. The conversation had run out, and I lay staring into the almost tangible black.

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