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It’s Saturday afternoon.
You and your boy friend stroll down to Main Street to take in a matin6e. You want to see the movie at the Orpheum and he wants to see the movie at the Strand. But before the argument between you gets really hot, he comes out with a brilliant suggestion. "C’mon, I'm flush and I believe in spreading the loot around. Let’s give ’em both a break, shall we?”
In the darkness of the Strand you pass him the popcorn and he passes you the salted peanuts while you both stare up at "Lolita.’’ She is lying on her side, propped on her elbow, flipping through the pages of a magazine. On her head she wears a wide-brimmed picture hat from under which bangs peep; covering her eyes are dark sunglasses— heart-shaped, absurd. Next to you, your boy friend sucks in his breath and you know for sure that he’s not looking at her face. Maybe you shouldn't have
I settled for the Orpheum. But even while you’re thinking these things, you have to confess — only to yourself, of course — that the curves of her slim figure, set off by a very brief bikini and outlined against the lawn, are kind of nice.
It’s when the girl on the lawn pushes her sunglasses up on her forehead, however, that you move in closer to your boy friend to let him know you're still there, too. Because now you see her eyes (slate-colored? bright blue? — you wonder which) gazing directly at a man whose own eyes are fixed on hers in pure (or maybe it's impure) fascination. And her gaze . . . shy . . . bold . . . pert . . . sullen . . . provocative . . . disinterested . . . you’re not certain which (perhaps it’s all of these and more), disturbs you.
The exact word to describe her comes later, haltingly, from your boy friend as you and he stumble out of the dark theater into the bright sun. You've asked him how he liked the picture, and he stares down at his (Please turn the page)