"Mrs. Markin," said Mildred. "I haven't seen you for such a long time. Nathan's out for a few minutes, please sit down."

"Thank you." Mrs. Markin sat down in a sky blue, high backed chair. "I see Nathan has hung some new pictures."

"Yes. He says he's now financially independent enough to afford his own state in art instead of his customers.'"

"I see" said Mrs. Markin, studying the shinning poised face, which spoke to her from behind the desk. Mrs. Markin was wondering if Mildred was wondering if the formal reception of the boss's wife betrayed an uneasiness about the boss's wife's presence. I'm not, after all, another businessman, though Mrs. Markin. She envisioned Mildred in a floor length, soft pink night gown. Did the same poised, shining face which looked across the desk, look up that way from a pillow? "O Mr. Markin," would it say, "You've not come like that in such a long time. You better rest now. Here, take this breast." Mrs. Markin smiled politely in the silence and let her eyes drift from the secretary to the painting on the paneled wall. She heard the typing start again.

This is the wonderful thing about being a secretary, thought Mildred. Typing and copying, copying and typing, you look totally intent on your work yet it is all mechanical. Your mind is free, perhaps even freer because it is chained to the mechanical process and cannot emote idly. Just the thinking part is left open. You get to think about your boss's wife thinking about you. Naturally she's convinced that you fuck him to death. But she won't ask you. You can't come right out and say he's tried but he hasn't tried hard enough. You have to live with the silent assumption that you fuck him and you have to pretend you're both making the best of it. Her greatest fear is that it is love making instead of fucking. She figures any animal must fuck, so he's tolerated for that. It is making love he gets hated for. And Nathan, or course, does neither. What he does is take you out to lunch and drink. What he does is tell you what an excellent secretary you are. What he does is tell you that you are beautiful, and you grow more beautiful after each drink. He speakers idealistically. He worries about particulars. Did you get your car fixed? How in your mother? Then you go back to the office. You copy and type, type and copy. You go home at five. Your listen to Beethoven. Does he really listen to Beethoven? Do you? Do you? Do you?

I walked into the office and Mildred was typing and my wife we listening. The new paintings jumped off the wall at me because my wife was there. I was gone longer than I had expected because I met the son of a friend of mine. The boy had just returned from the war, and I asked him to have a drink with me. One would expect he wouldn't want to had been in combat. One would expect he wouldn't want to talk about it, so I told myself, before asking him, that I wouldn't bring up the war. Yet of course that was why I wanted to talk to him. He was drafted upon graduating from high school, by his won choice he said. He could have gone to college and been deferred. The war, however, was the only thing he could get his teeth into. In a way, he said, it made sense. Next to high school football, the war was all we had to talk about. I was surprised at how healthy he seemed, and how little effected he seemed by the holocaust in which he had been a living part. No deeply anguished eyes. No haunted expressions. No nothing. He had accepted it and I haven't. So essentially, it was war adventures that kept my wife waiting. Waiting placidly.

"Hello dear," she said.

"What a surprise, been waiting long?"

More than a few minutes. Mildred said you'd be gone only a few minutes dear."

"That's what I told her. But I rain into Marv Johnson's son."

"O how nice. I thought he got killed."

"No you must be thinking of someone else."

"I guess I am. Do you have a few minutes?"

"Certainly. Let's go back to my office. We can have a cup of coffee."

The paintings drifted into memory as we walk down the short hallway. She sat facing me with her back to the only painting in the room. I poured her some coffee.