In the morning Alice says, "I want to see the country. All of it."
She is going home to West Viginia for the holidays. Split between her divorced parents. A daunting experience and she asks, "Can you come skiing with me at Snowshoe?"
An Appalachian ski resort.
"I'd love to, but I'm going north to Boston."
Family and friends. Snowshoe would be better, but my poverty stops me from doing what I like when I like.
"I'd love to come with you, but you know, family and friends."
The times I've gone to Boston alone, Alice has pleaded for me to stay and I think about asking her to stay here. Neither of us go anywhere. I don't want to be with anyone, but her, not not her associates from the theater and the Vaudeville show. I'm done being a sucker for them after last night. My ribs are aching. And a whole bottle of aspirin has done nothing to alleviate the pain. Skiing in my condition could be risky. One fall and my ribs could pop.
"I'll be here waiting for you to come back."
We kiss and almost make love, except in in too much pain from last night's beating. Alice hasn't said a word about the bruises that weren't there yesterday. She must have heard about the bout with Blondie's band. I've said nothing.
Silence is my only true friend.
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