“Listen to this.” He looked off to the side at nothing.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t you want your boss’s job one of these days?”

His head popped back. “My boss has a flat prostate from sitting in front of a phone all day.”

“Don’t you ever think of your future?”

“Getting rid of a white Ford is going to ensure my future?” He shoveled up a mouthful of spaghetti to avoid saying something that would make her angry.

After a few minutes she said, “You should sell it and buy a low-end Lexus, or maybe a Volvo.”

He stabbed at a meatball. “I’d rather drive a Vespa in Iceland.”

She sat back hard against her chair. “Why are you so damned stubborn?”

“Nobody looks at me. I’m just an immigrant to the West Coast, trying to make a buck. I like a plain, serviceable car, one that doesn’t need a man in a white jacket and tie to fix it, one that can take a ding in a parking lot and not break my heart.”

She put her napkin on the table. “You’ll have the money soon to afford better. I mean, it’s okay for Tiger Island, but…”

“I will not sell my big white Ford, can you understand that, babe?”

Her chair slid back an inch. “Don’t call me babe.”

“It means baby,” he snapped.

She seemed to smile, then got up slowly, walking toward the ladies’ room. After ten minutes, the busboy came to clear the table, and the smiling waiter brought his check. Paul went to the bar and drank a beer, watching the entrance to the restaurant. Then he went into the parking lot, where a Mexican sat behind the wheel of his taxi, singing in a wavering, furry falsetto.

“Have you seen a woman come out by herself?”

The young driver gave him a serious look, as though in respect for some tragedy. “Yes. A nice-looking brunette with bright skin. I took her home, just a few blocks away.”

Paul looked down the dark street. “Was she mad?”

“I don’t think she was happy.”

Paul kept staring down the boulevard. “We had a discussion about a car,” he said, mostly to himself.

The driver lit a cigarette. “It’s a shame to lose such a woman over a car,” he said, watching Paul carefully. In consolation, he told him, “If you stick your head in my window, you can still smell her perfume.”

Seven

When Colette got back to her apartment, she kicked her new leather sofa. She was angry with herself for meeting her stubborn worm of a soon-to-be ex-husband. She was also angry with herself for leaving him at the restaurant. His dull Ford was not what had upset her. All during the meal she’d been afraid that she was going to invite him to her place. She thought of his shoulders and put a hand on the phone. Someone to talk to was what she needed. Another woman’s voice. She could call Elise from Payroll, but she would tell her that her problems were merely hormonal. Everybody in California had a scientific answer for everything. Her hand left the receiver. The thought occurred to her that she could call her mother, but that would be trading with the enemy, returning to the swamp. She sat on the expensive sofa, which was hard and stiff and noisy, and tried to daydream of what she would buy with her next paycheck. She looked up to a pair of expensive abstract prints and thought of her bedroom in Tiger Island, decorated with a church calendar and a drawing of a shrimp boat. Somewhere in her future was something glittery and special. A new car maybe. Not a secondhand Ford, either. She thought about her husband’s job, amazed that he could function in the city’s smoky air and traffic.