Susan stammered.

"We can go into Boston and shec a sow-uh, see a show." (He was getting nervous again, damn it; he could feel his self-control evaporating like sweat.) "I can pick up the tickets on Monday. I'll call you Monday night and let you know what show it will be; I'm sure we'll have a real blast!"

Martin had never been less positive of anything, and he knew it, and so did Susan. But she was on the spot, so she said that would be fine, and they parted without even a peck.

By the time he reached the Square, Martin realized he would not have to worry about buying tickets. By the time he had reached his room, Martin knew he would not even have to worry about calling Susan, for she was going to call him. Tomorrow, as a matter of fact.

This time Martin knew what was coming, and he determined not to be caught. He would not take any crap from this little bitch. None! He stayed up until four in the morning, plotting his answers.

Martin was up on Sunday by eight and in the living room, waiting, by nine. He sat in the hazardous old armchair and mediated upon the telephone. It reminded him of something biological; what? Yes, that picture in his tenth-grade biology book. A whole lot of snaky little cells and some great fat black ones. What the hell were those cells, anyway? Jesus, Martin thought. I can't remember anything any more. But it doesn't make any difference. Whatever that little one is, it sure looks comfortable lying up there-right in the groove." I mean, a gross-

THEN, strangely, the big fat black cell rang.

Martin snapped out of his reverie real fast. He stood up, walked slowly over to the phone, sat down on the floor, picked up the receiver, and said, "Hello, Susan."

"What? How did you know it was me?"

"Who else would call at nine-thirty on Sunday morning?" Martin wasn't being very pleasant; that was a good start. But Susan didn't know what to say to that question, so Martin asked another one: "What did you want, Susan?"

"Oh. Well-I don't know how to say this-(Get ready, Martin, here it comes) but I'm... I'm... I'm not going to be able to go out with you next Saturday."

"Oh." (Martin! What's happening, damn it?! Don't let her get away with it!)

"You see, it's my great-aunt's birthday in Connecticut, and, uh (That's a goddamn lie, Martin!) my mother called this morning (At nine A.M.?! Sure she did!) and told me I have to come home next weekend because

my great-aunt is ninety years old and she's going to die soon and this is probably her last birthday so you see I just won't be able to make it next Saturday night, Martin!"

TELL her it's a GODDAMN LIE. Martin!!)