Free Slate by Nathan Aldyne Page B

wasn’t faultlessly picturesque. She had shut her law text and made a neat pile of the several fat volumes she’d dragged out of the stacks. She checked her watch—the library would close in just about an hour—then glanced out the window again. There was Valentine, staring in at her. His black toque was pulled down over his ears. His leather jacket was unzipped, and a red woolen scarf was draped about his neck. He motioned for her to come outside.
    She gathered her things and went out to the sidewalk.
    â€œHow about a drink and a reconciliation?”
    Clarisse smiled warmly as Valentine helped her on with her coat. “I thought you and Linc were going dancing.”
    â€œPriorities,” said Valentine shortly. “I sent him home.”
    â€œI want to get pie-eyed,” said Clarisse.
    Valentine raised an eyebrow. “What about your exam?”
    Clarisse shrugged. “What I really need is a night off. That’s what will do me the most good tomorrow morning.”
    They walked to Buddies, a bar on Boylston Street near Copley Square, where they alternately danced and downed Black Russians until the lights were brought up at two o’clock. Clarisse, feigning a torn ligament in her right leg, dragged herself in a grotesque limp from the door of the bar to the front of the line waiting for taxis at the curb and commandeered the next cab that swung by. When they had tumbled into the back seat of the taxi, Clarisse hiccupped, looked at Valentine, and whispered, “Oh, God. I feel a confession coming on.”
    â€œI can take it,” said Valentine, reeling slightly against the door.
    Clarisse looked at him soulfully, with a frown of anguish. “I haven’t given up cigarettes,” she blurted. “I know I promised, but I can’t do it. I smoke every chance I get. Out on the fire escape, out the bathroom window. I go into McDonald’s and order a Diet Pepsi just so I can sit there and smoke. I walk to class so I can smoke on the way. For lunch, I have a peach yogurt and seven cigarettes. Oh, Val, I feel guilty every time I light a match!” In one swallow, she finished off the drink that Valentine had smuggled out of the bar beneath his jacket.
    Valentine stared out the window and then back at Clarisse. He stifled a hiccup.
    â€œYou’re disappointed in me, aren’t you?” said Clarisse, despairingly.
    Valentine looked out of the window again and said quietly, “While you were leaning out the bathroom window, I was hiding in the cellar…”
    â€œSmoking?” Clarisse shrieked. “You can’t smoke. You’ll die ! You’ll get pneumonia again! Where are your cigarettes?” she demanded.
    He guiltily reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a package of unfiltered Camels.
    She snatched them from him, said “ Ugh !” and flung them out the window. “If I had brought any with me, I’d throw them out too. I promise, I’ll stop right now, for good ”
    The taxi pulled up before the building on Warren Avenue. Valentine paid the driver and helped Clarisse out. She would have forgotten her law text and notebook had he not retrieved them for her.
    â€œOh, God,” she moaned as Valentine fumbled with his keys. “It’s two-thirty in the morning, and I’m dead drunk.” She turned around, facing the street, and fell back against the brick wall. “I’m a disgrace to my intended profession. Why don’t you just leave me out here in the gutter? That’s where I’m going to end up. In Girl Scouts, they taught us how to make a mattress out of old newspapers. I’ll be fine.”
    Valentine got the proper keys into the proper locks and pushed open the door.
    â€œYou need a little sleep, that’s all. I’ll make you some hot milk—”
    â€œI’ll throw up.”
    Valentine led her up the stairs. As they passed the two doors on the