I was looking at her boobs. Her sweater was too tight, a cardigan, and she was braless, and the top button of her sweater was open. Her breasts were high and hard and the nipples pressed firmly. I could see the nipples outlined right through the sweater, and the closeness of her flesh and body struck me like a bolt of sunlight. God, I hadn't screwed a woman in more than a month, not since I had gone out on the abandoned farm on the prairie alone and trained and trained, throwing hundreds of footballs every day, running five miles, then sprints. Hell, I didn't need a woman out there. I ran myself into the ground every night. But like somebody said, if you don't see pussy too much, it doesn't bother you, but if you're going to hang around it, you're bound to want as much as you can get. Right now I wanted some of this. But first I must see Binks. I hadn't sweated a year out of football to blow my chances on the first bar pussy available.

"Seven-Up straight?" She wrinkled her nose. "Feel okay?"

"Never felt better," I told her. "What do you want?"

"Well, now! I haven't even thought about that. But September's sure nice here, isn't it?"

"That's a reasonable statement."

"You live here?"

"Not yet," I said. "I'm from all over."

"All over what?"

"Wherever I can hang my hat."

She smiled. "What do you do?"

"Stockbroker," I told her. I didn't want to talk football to anyone until I saw Binks.

Her face lit up. "Jeez, you must be rich!" She laughed softly, but I couldn't tell whether she was serious or kidding me.

"Maybe you haven't heard about the market lately," I said.

She looked up. The waitress was there. I paid her and she went away and the girl said, "Which one?"

Now it was my turn to stare stupidly at her. Which market? What the hell. There was only one market. Now who was pulling whose leg?

"Stock market," I said.

"Oh," she giggled. "I thought you meant supermarket. That's what I do."