Helen says, “I think Sophie is depressed. She doesn’t look good to me.”
“She looks good to me,” Allan says. He burps loudly. All that beer. He didn’t want all that beer, but he likes bugging Sophie. “She’s a fine-looking woman.”
“That’s not what I meant. I mean that she doesn’t look happy.”
“Who’s happy these days?” Allan holds up his hands, throws them into the cooling air. Helen looks up into the air at what Allan is indicating. There is nothing but more high-rises, an airplane way up high and no stars. Pollution. They are on Bloor Street, walking towards home.
“She is pretty,” Helen says. “You are right there.”
“I’m right here, honey.” Allan laughs. “And I feel sick. That chicken was gross.”
“The rice. My God, you’d think they’d know how to cook rice after all the goddamn dinner
