Spring 1945 • Vol. VII No. 2 FictionApril 1, 1945 |

For a Beautiful Relationship

Silent wordless, speaking of love, Sam sat in contemplation. In the hall, on his left, the telephone was ringing. To his right, on the low platform behind the bar, the new waitress, in brown slacks and a red silk shirt that left her middle bare, was playing the piano very softly and singing in a quiet, husky voice: My house is haunted with those memories that refuse to die. I can't get away from that vision that brings Intimate glimpses of intimate things. My house is haunted . . . . A little farther to the right, the bartender was stretching his foot out from under a dirty apron, to rest it on the piano platform, to lean forward with his chin in one hand, watching the girl, a little above the middle, watching and listening to her, talking to her in a low voice no one could hear. Still to the right, directly beside Sam, sat a middle-aged man, gaunt, drinking rye and soda and saying softly to himself, she's singing the wrong lyrics to that god damned song. And that

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