Free Eleven Kinds of Loneliness by Richard Yates

convince ourselves—the many things that made life with Ruby so enjoyable. “Well yeah,” little Fogarty said, “but I dunno. With Ruby it don’t seem much like soldiering any more.”
    This was the second time Fogarty had thrown us into a momentary confusion, and for the second time D’Allessandro cleared the air. “So?” he said with a shrug. “Who the hell wants to soldier?”
    That said it perfectly. We could spit in the dust and amble off toward the PX now, round-shouldered, relieved, confident that Sergeant Reece would not haunt us again. Who the hell wanted to soldier? “Not me ,” we could all say in our hearts, “not this chicken,” and our very defiance would dignify the attitude. An attitude was all we needed anyway, all we had ever needed, and this one would always sit more comfortably than Reece’s stern, demanding creed. It meant, I guess, that at the end of our training cycle the camp delivered up a bunch of shameless little wise guys to be scattered and absorbed into the vast disorder of the Army, but at least Reece never saw it happen, and he was the only one who might have cared.

No Pain Whatsoever
     
    M YRA STRAIGHTENED HERSELF in the backseat and smoothed her skirt, pushing Jack’s hand away.
    “All right, baby,” he whispered, smiling, “take it easy.”
    “You take it easy, Jack,” she told him. “I mean it, now.”
    His hand yielded, limp, but his arm stayed indolently around her shoulders. Myra ignored him and stared out the window. It was early Sunday evening, late in December, and the Long Island streets looked stale; dirty crusts of snow lay shriveled on the sidewalk, and cardboard images of Santa Claus leered out of closed liquor stores.
    “I still don’t feel right about you driving me all the way out here,” Myra called to Marty, who was driving, to be polite.
    “’S all right,” Marty grumbled. Then he sounded his horn and added, to the back of a slow truck, “Get that son of a bitch outa the way.”
    Myra was annoyed—why did Marty always have to be such a grouch?—but Irene, Marty’s wife, squirmed around in the front seat with her friendly grin. “Marty don’t mind,” she said. “It’s good for ’m, getting out on a Sunday insteada laying around the house.”
    “Well,” Myra said, “I certainly do appreciate it.” The truth was that she would much rather have taken the bus, alone, as usual. In the four years she had been coming out here to visit herhusband every Sunday she had grown used to the long ride, and she liked stopping at a little cafeteria in Hempstead, where you had to change buses, for coffee and cake on the way home. But today she and Jack had gone over to Irene and Marty’s for dinner, and the dinner was so late that Marty had to offer to drive her out to the hospital, and she had to accept. And then of course Irene had to come along, and Jack too, and they all acted as if they were doing her a favor. But you had to be polite. “It certainly is nice,” Myra called, “to be riding out here in a car, instead of a— don’t Jack!”
    Jack said, “ Sh-h-h , take it easy, baby,” but she threw off his hand and twisted away. Watching them, Irene put her tongue between her teeth and giggled, and Myra felt herself blushing. It wasn’t that there was anything to be ashamed of—Irene and Marty knew all about Jack and everything; most of her friends did, and nobody blamed her (after all, wasn’t it almost like being a widow?)—it was just that Jack ought to know better. Couldn’t he at least have the decency to keep his hands to himself now, of all times?
    “There,” Marty said. “Now we’ll make some time.” The truck had turned off and they were picking up speed, leaving the streetcar tracks and stores behind as the street became a road and then a highway.
    “Care to hear the radio, kids?” Irene called. She clicked one of the dial tabs and a voice urged everyone to enjoy television in their own homes, now, tonight. She clicked