Harlem lay black and shining in the rain of an October night. The trolleys groaned along One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street and the lights of Proctor's and the Harlem Grand Motion Picture. Theater lay in dank and yellow reflection in the puddles. Harlemites, their faces covered by umbrellas, hurried along the street. They prodded and bumped into each other, scowled, and rushed on to the movies.
Dot stood outside of Loft's candy store waiting for Eddie. An old felt hat was pulled low over her eyes and the collar of her coat pinned tight around her neck. Her slippers were heavy with wetness and the sleazy silk stockings clung to her insteps. Dot's umbrella was closed. It was useless. The rain was coming from the direction in which Dot wanted to watch. Why was Eddie late? She glanced into the candy store. Even with its tiled floor tracked with countless pairs of dripping rubbers it seemed inviting. She went in and asked for a pineapple sundae. Certainly by the time she had consumed it Eddie would be there. She stood at the counter with the little mound of ice cream and pineapple shreds. From the tables she couldn't see the street, and she wanted to see the street. Perhaps Eddie would come, and not finding her, would go away again. Gee, that would be fierce.
The pineapple sundae disappeared and Dot took up her post again beneath the red electric specimen of Mr. Loft's handwriting. She might have stayed in the store, but a person gets so restless waiting. There's a painful sort of solace in watching each new figure that appears, and in
