So we went ahead and ordered our meal, and w’ile we was waitin’ for it a young couple come and took the other two chairs at our table. They didn’t have to announce through a megaphone that they was honeymooners. It was wrote all over ’em. They was reachin’ under the table for each other’s hand every other minute, and when they wasn’t doin’ that they was smilin’ at each other or gigglin’ at nothin’. You couldn’t feel that good and be payin’ seventeen dollars a day for room and board unless you was just married or somethin’.
I thought at first their company’d be fun, but after a few meals it got like the southern cookin’ and begun to undermine the health.
The conversation between they and us was what you could call limited. It took place the next day at lunch. The young husband thought he was about to take a bite o’ the entry, which happened to be roast mutton with syrup; but he couldn’t help from lookin’ at her at the same time and his empty fork started for his face prongs up.
“Look out for your eye,” I says.
He dropped the fork and they both blushed till you could see it right through the sunburn. Then they give me a Mexican look and our acquaintance was at an end.
This first night, when we was through eatin’, we wandered out in the lobby and took seats where we could watch the passin’ show. The men was all dressed like me, except I was up to date and had on a mushroom shirt, w’ile they was sportin’ the old-fashioned concrete bosom. The women’s dresses begun at the top with a belt, and some o’ them stopped at the mezzanine floor, w’ile others went clear down to the basement and helped keep the rugs clean. They was one that must of thought it was the Fourth o’ July. From the top of her head to where the top of her bathin’ suit had left off, she was a red, red rose. From there to the top of her gown was white, and her gown, what they was of it—was blue.