Half off the couch, half on, his head resting on the palm of his hand, d**k kept moaning, “Why do we have to go out every Saturday night? Would you come out second in the popularity poll if we missed one Saturday night?”
Martha rubbed her ear and continued stitching the hem on her costume. The baby tried to grab a spool of thread and she dropped more fabric on the floor as though he were a hungry animal to whom she had to keep throwing scraps of food to prevent an attack.
Kicking off his shoes, d**k leaned his head far back between the cushion and the armrest. He was still wearing glen plaid cotton slacks and a paint-streaked pullover. “A masquerade yet. If we stay home tonight,” he bribed, “I’ll walk funny for you. Did I ever walk funny for you?” He jumped to his feet and began shufflin
