"I thought this would be a quiet place. I wanted to talk to you; of course, that's impossible here. Shall we leave?"
Howard nodded. They rose. Jean fluttered toward them, asking anxiously if Howard was displeased with his singing. A ten dollar bill reassured him and he escorted them to the door.
As they drove uptown, Ken was apprehensive. "Fm moody tonight," he said. "I'm not my usual self. It's as if I had left myself at the theatre—the happy me—" He hesitated.
"I don't understand. You were so cheerful all day. What is it? Dyspepsia?"
"That business of getting drunk last night. I should not have done it."
"A spot of liquor is always good for you."
"I used to drink in Tia Juana because I was unhappy and wanted to forget."
"Forget what?"
"Some day I'll tell you, when … when I feel we understand each other completely." They were nearing Broadway. Ken was oblivious of the lights and the cacophony of noise. "If I'm vague, it's because I can't express exactly what is in my mind," he finally said.
"I think I understand," Howard told him. "You require fulfillment."
Fulfillment? Perhaps. Perhaps something still more important. Comradeship, perhaps—perhaps calmness, peace. I thought all that was just around the corner. Last night—and I can't tell you why—I felt something go snap, something let go. I was painfully aware of the need for more than I could ever hope to have—if you get what I mean."
