On the way out he manages not to shake her hand, merely says: Well, be seeing you.

They walk out onto the street together, then he nods to her, turns, and walks off. She walks off the other way, but only as far as the lights. Where she stops. She knows his surname. It won’t be hard to find his address. Drop a note in his mailbox or wait outside his door. The streetcar jingles its bell, cars splash through puddles, the lights change for pedestrians, change back. She feels pain to the tips of her fingers. She’s still standing there, change, change back. She hears the hissing of wet tires on asphalt. She doesn’t want to go anywhere without him. Be seeing you, he said. Be seeing you. Didn’t even take her hand. Could she have been so utterly mistaken? But just then he says, behind her: Or shall we spend the evening together after all? His wife and son were in the country, with friends.