His bleary eyes squinted. It was Johnny this and Johnny that and Johnny ... Kipling? Someone?
"We got nothing against spacers here, only when we close, we close. I'll make you something to eat if you want, but that's it."
"No. No, thank you."
"A bit too much to drink, eh?"
"I'll be O.K. I'm sorry if I—"
"Forget it. Here, let me help you to the door. Easy, now."
He was outside, the duffle balanced on his lean shoulder, the misty drizzle chilling him at once, the wet sidewalk casting his reflection and alternately swallowing and elongating his shadow as he made his way down the street past the spaced lamplights.
Sooner or later, he would see her. He had to see her and the child, who was now almost three years old. But what did you do, walk in the front door and say hello Mrs. (name of new husband), I'm the man you used to be married to? Perhaps, he thought, you wrote a letter instead, a dear-John in reverse. But that way you did not get to see the boy.
Certainly, you saw none of your old friends. Tough luck, old fellow. Something about more fish in the sea. Pat your back and introduce you to two or three one-tracked-minded bachelor girls as the conquering hero from Io and other faraway places. And you did not even venture into the old neighborhood until you were ready for the quick sally, the first visit to Nancy and the boy (and the new husband?) and departure.
Nancy loved her husband, the girl-reporter said. Nancy had loved him. Simple logic: Nancy loved husbands, present tense. Security. What he sought. Safe in a circumscribed world, in comfortable, middle-class conformity, free and clear of all intrusions except the mortgage and the payments on the new copter and scraped knees for junior.