10.

The leaves had turned in Central Park, and some of them had fallen. But it was still warm. Burke walked south beside Lauren. She was wearing a long tweed coat, a matching tweed skirt, and a mannish-looking little snap-brim hat that matched the coat and skirt.

“Do you have a cigarette?” she said.

“Camels.”

“I smoke Chesterfields,” she said.

Burke shrugged.

After a couple of steps Lauren said, “Oh very well, I’ll take a Camel.”

Burke took the pack from his shirt pocket and shook one loose. She took it and put it between her lips. He lit it for her. Without taking the cigarette from her mouth, Lauren inhaled deeply, and let the smoke trickle out.

“Why did you get divorced?” Lauren said.

“I was away. She took up with someone else.”

“Away in the war?”

“Yes.”

“Did you like being married?”

“Yes.”

“Do you wish you were again?”

“I don’t wish,” Burke said.

Lauren stopped. Burke stopped with her.

“For anything?” she said.

Burke shook his head.

“Good God,” she said.

Burke was silent, his eyes moving as he looked at whoever walked toward them.

“I wish for more,” Lauren said. “More money, more freedom, more cocktails, more music, more clothes, more canapés, more men. I’m wishing all the time.”

“We differ,” Burke said.

“Don’t you get bored? Wanting nothing? Feeling nothing? Isn’t it damned dreadfully boring.”

“Life’s boring,” Burke said.

They began to walk again toward midtown. Lauren nodded her head as she walked.

“Of course,” she said. “Of course. That’s why you’re not afraid of Louis.”

Burke didn’t say anything. He was watching two men in dark topcoats as they approached, and passed, and moved away uptown.

“You don’t care if you live or die,” Lauren said.

“Not much,” Burke said.

“Is there anything?” Lauren said.

“I’d kind of enjoy shooting my wife’s boyfriend between the eyes,” Burke said.

“Do you still love her?” Lauren said.

“No.”

“Then why...?”

“Better than nothing,” Burke said.

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