First. Find a policeman, tell what has
happened, describe the young woman, damn her, he thinks, for seeming
to be attentive to him, to let herself stand so close to him, to
blush prettily when he spoke-and all the time she wanted only to
steal from him. And her blush was not shyness but the anxiety of
being caught; that was most disturbing of all. Damn deceitful creatures.
He will spare the policeman the details-just tell what she has down,
what is in the wallet. He grits his teeth. He will probably never
see his wallet again.
He is trying to decide if he should save
time for talking to a guard near the X-ray machines when he is appalled-and
elated-to see the black-haired girl. She is seated against a front
window of the terminal, taxis and private cars moving sluggishly
beyond her in the gathering darkness: she seems engrossed in a book.
A seat beside her is empty, and the man occupies it.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he says.
She glances at him with no sort of recognition.
“I don’t know you,” she says.
“Sure you do.”
She sighs and puts the book aside. “is
this all you characters think about—picking up girls like we were
stray animals? What do you think I am?”