Hess Lou Anne Page Eight Red Head By Marjorie Hill From her position near the far end of the lunch counter, Torchy could see down the narrow passageway between the double row of booths and on to the doors with their neat gold lettering. For some time she had stared at the doors as though her compelling gaze could bring Steve through the entrance and down the aisle toward her. Now she shook her head slightly and forced herself to direct attention to the familiar booth. The tarnished lamp on the wall above the table, the leather cushions on the benches even the markings on the back of the next booth with these she was well acquainted. For the last booth on the left side at Tony's was her customary meeting place with Steve. Remembering the months she had known him, Torchy (whom her mother had named Jeanne) could not recall an evening when Steve had been on time. On many occasions, as the minutes had dragged along, she had grown angry angry with Steve for being late but even more angry with herself for waiting. Then invariably as he burst through the doors and strode toward her she forgot her anger. There was something in his friendly gray eyes and wide smile that made her forget everything but her liking. Looking back, Torchy realized that the earnest apologies he had always made had been unnecessary; she had forgiven him even before he spoke. She recalled vividly the first time Steve had ever apologized to her on the day of their first meeting in the small book shop where she worked. She had been adjusting a high stack of volumes when a tall young man, engrossed in the pamphlet he was reading, stumbled against her. Books crashed down upon their heads, and as the two scrambled for them the young man voiced embarrassed but fluent apologies. It was not long, however, as he studied Torchy covertly, before his chagrin turned to interest, for although she was not pretty, her curly auburn hair and small pert face made her an attractive picture. Torchy saw the approval in his eyes and realized that it must be mirrored in her own as she inventoried the tall young man. Soon they were deep in conversation and Steve had persuaded her to meet him after work at the restaurant down the street. Torchy liked Steve instantly and as the evening progressed she found herself liking him more and more. His warm friendliness made him a sharp contrast with most of the people Torchy knew. As far as she remembered, everyone about her had been reticent and undemonstrative. She had first become aware of the difference in herself when she realized that her parents, though genuinely fond of each other and of their children, did not consider an active display of their love proper. The other children accepted this, but Torchy could not. She sensed an emptiness in her life. Steve had filled the void with his warmth and quiet humor, and with him she was no longer conscious of the ache within. "Will he never come?" she thought. Nervously she lit a cigaret and through the smoke again watched the doors. As the smoke slowly ebbed away and the doors came into sharper focus, Torchy suddenly saw, framed by the doorway a picture of herself, waiting, always waiting. At that moment she realized that the pattern of her life with Steve could never be changed. There would be marvelous perfect moments with him and then the familiar wave of loneliness would again sweep over her. There would come a time when the emptiness of hours without him would obliterate her happiness, and there would be nothing left. For a second Torchy covered her eyes with her hand. Then she ground the cigaret into the ashtray before her, picked up her bag and gloves, and walked down the passageway and out the door. Page Nine