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Show 134 should ever be one of those girls walking the sidewalk, going into one of the delicatessens or small resturants. No, it was ridiculous. They should have gone to the theatre in Santa Monica. She almost suggested that they turn around and go back. But they would be late now, the picture would have started by the time they got there, they might not even get in. Even as it was, by the time they drove past this theatre, parked, and walked back, there was a long line. Roger grew loud; he talked loudly. This often happened, of course, when he was around people, especially strangers, she should have expected it. He laughed and made comments, the couples ahead and behind turning to him. She endured. Not ignoring him, exactly, but not looking at him as he talked; looking, instead, at the cars passing in the street, the theatre line across the street at the other corner, the ticket booth ahead-how far away it was! Roger was now asking the young man ahead of them if it was always this busy on Saturday night. The young man said it was. Well, Roger said, he didn't mind waiting in line if it was a good movie. And on he talked, the young man answering his questions. In a few minutes, the young man's voice began to soften, to become less objective, less impersonal. But she could not look at him either. After an initial glance-he wore glasses, a brown coat, that's all she could remember-she had averted her eyes from both of them. How far away that ticket booth was! And then she recognized a figure leaving the window booth-the back of him-the blond curly hair moving toward the open doors of the lobby. It was Steve. She was sure that it was Steve. She stiffened, |