Seeing her disappointment, he thought he must have sounded unconcerned, and tried to explain. "If I came, I could not help because even if I could suggest anything, your ballet would become to that extent my idea of how it should be instead of yours. That would spoil it for you. Now it is what you have seen in the idea, and what will come through is what you are." His voice warmed and lightened. "I don't believe you need worry if that comes across."
This, she thought, feeling a wild happiness, is what I need. Someone to talk to who thinks I can do something.
"Take my hand," she said, grasping his. "Crossing Madison Square is tricky for high heels."
A lone figure on a park bench awakened and fumbled for his slipping newspaper blanket, mumbling an oath at the inconsiderate young.
If only, Lucy thought, I could walk and walk like this, hand in hand, and wouldn't have to think of a recital. I wouldn't have to talk because his hand knows everything. If I stand close I can put my head against his shoulder because he is exactly the right height. If I would put my arms around him he wouldn't take it for granted I expected him to make love to me. I would do it because he is like a tree that wants nothing from you yet gives you what is true to itself and yourself.
"I know you don't like dance recitals," she said, "but I hope you will come and see what happened to your idea for a ballet."
"Whose idea?" he chided. "I already have a ticket."
"You have!"
"And now I think you have walked enough and we better get you home. Here's a cab," he said, relieved that this time there need be no retreat for lack of a few pennies.
"Let's take a bus, on top, just for fun," Lucy said because she wasn't going to let him throw away money on her.
