"Well, don't be nasty."
"Who the hell is nasty?"
"You are."
"I am! I haven't said a word."
"Oh, no. You never say anything."
"I'll be afraid to hereafter. One word and you're down my throat."
"Oh, Eddie, don't let's fight."
"Who's fighting? I only said—"
"Let's drop it."
Eddie walked into the bedroom without answering her. Dot turned off the radio set and the light and followed him. They undressed in silence. Eddie's trousers were laid with no especial care on the smirking yellow chair. His shirt was carefully hung over the back of it. His underclothes were thrown from across the room, and he painstakingly avoided the sight of them missing their mark, which had been a somewhat difficult one; namely, the knob of the closet door. His shoes and socks were placed beneath the bed so they would be handy in the morning. He reached down and picked up his tie, which had been neglected in the excitement of placing the shirt correctly. He tossed it in the general direction of the chiffonier. Then Eddie was ready for bed. One wonders who buys the pajamas that are sold uptown.
Dot's disrobing was done in a more leisurely fashion, and it bore a slight tint of elegance. She cold-creamed her face before retiring. She wore a nightgown. There were bedroom slippers at her side of the bed. She turned out the light and climbed in beside him.
He moved close to her and put his arm around her. She kissed him.
They both knew that this in no way meant that hostilities had ceased, nor did it signify that they would be on speaking terms in the morning.
