Disappearing Act, Part IX

Tuesday night

I called Mike tonight. I asked him if he knew something about Sally.

- Who?

- Sally.

- Sally who?

- You know who, you big galoot.

- Is this a joke?

- One could say that, yes! How about we start talking seriously?

- Start from the beginning. Who the devil is Sally?

- You don’t know Sally Norton?

- No. Who is it?

- You never had a date with her, Jane Lane, and myself?

- Jane Lane? Who are you talking about?

- You don’t know Jane Lane either?

- No! And I don’t find it funny. I suggest that you stop. Between married men, it’s…

- Listen! I shouted. Where were you Saturday night three weeks ago?

There was a guarded silence.

-Wasn’t it the evening that we spent by ourselves while Mary and Gladys were at that fashion show?

- By ourselves? Without anyone else?

- Who else?

- No girls? Sally? Jane?

- There you go again! He groaned. Listen, old friend, what’s happened to you? You don’t seem to be doing well.

I was crumbling inside the telephone booth.

- No, I mumbled, I’m fine.

- Really? You seem to be in a frightening state.

I hung up. I am in a frightening state. Like a starving person in a world where there’s not a crumb to eat.

What happened?