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Show Vogue bo "Oh," she shifts her feet to the other side of the chair and looks toward the exit, "I thought maybe that was the case." "What's the case?" He pushes up the sleeves of his crew neck sweater. "One's the same as another." She leans onto her elbow and sighs. "You really are something, lady. You walk in here, I start to talk to you, and you act like I'm into some federal crime because I like women." He rubs the point of his plaid shirt collar between his fingers. "More than that, you act like your precious little self is better than everybody else. We're all in this together." Tears blanket her eyes. She snaps open her purse, tosses a $5 bill on the shiny table, and avoids his glare. "Tell my friend that I caught a cab home." "But wait," he says as she rushes away without her pink cardigan which is still folded over the back of the orange vinyl. "Your sweater." She half runs to the telephone and dials information. "Yellow Cab, please." He is there, too, with the cashmere sweater dangling from his finger. He pushes down the receiver, hangs up the phone, and puts his arms around her waist from behind. "I'm not an asshole," he whispers. "I'm not just another chalk mark. Who do you think you are, you pig?" She snaps around at him, breaking his hold, and starts to raise an ominous, yet frail fist into the air. |