Chance

A Story by Gene Damon

I am wondering about you, sitting there in the gloom across the room from me. I noticed you when you came in and walked blindly (or so I thought) to that corner booth. Your hands are strong and nerveless and blunt, still your eyes and head look very sad.

Could you be waiting for a friend? Or are you tired and only wanting a minute away from the noisy confusion outside on the street? It is nearly six o'clock and people are going home from work while others are looking for a place to eat downtown before their own personal evenings begin. I am still wondering about you and there is no real reason for my curiosity. Perhaps it is prompted by boredom or pity for your apparent unhappiness. Then again it might be only impatience I see in your face, in the set of your arms and hands. Your drink looks as if it might revive even the most exhausted for a while. drink is pale in comparison.

My

The crowds seem to be thinning and growing quiet, and I should start home but I think I shall have to wait and watch a while longer. If I thought I had a right, I would walk over and talk to you. How silly, I wouldn't or couldn't do that even with some mythical right. (I wonder what decides these things for people?) I wonder if you smoke as constantly always as you are now? I never can; though I would like to. My throat always rebels after five or six in a row. Still I imagine you

are as unaware of your smoking as you seem to be of this room. Somehow this room seems terribly real to me. It is long and low and poor in lighting. The music bellows for so narrow a place.

Seven o'clock now and I am hungry; in a moment I will call the girl over and order something to eat. Are you hungry? After all, it's late enough to be hungry,

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