Give me another shot of that, he said. I gave him a shot. Oh, that’s right, he said. That’s the stuff. The pretty girl next to him said something I didn’t hear.
“Don’t worry,” said the fat man, “even cowboys get saddle-sore sometimes. And how about those steel workers, ever see them?” The girl shook her head, but didn’t look up.
You can talk, she thought, it’s all right for you. It was Sunday again and they were walking in Richmond Park. You’re not even listening, he said. You’re not even bothering to listen.