know what is the cause of it—perhaps it's being here in Montreal, drinking real champagne—feeling as if I were crawling out of a hole into the daylight—but I'm going to talk at last. When we first met, Howard, you said we'd always be together. I doubted it. I couldn't figure out my problem. Now I've got to put out the flag. Stand up and cheer. You know what I mean?"
"I think I do."
"1 came here to tell you that. I came, as your song says, to let you know just how I feel."
Howard was serious. "Is it because of me, then?"
"Yes. Howard, I'm as nearly sober as is necessary. Believe me, it's because I've got to tell you. I couldn't live without your knowing it! Keeping silent made me want to get drunk, to stay drunk and then to let go of everything. I suppose I'll do that anyway, some day—soon."
"No, you won't."
"I'll be yellow again. It's me—yellow."
"But Ken, this mood is not becoming to you. You should be gay, a dancing boy. You shouldn't think."
"That's just it. Until you came along, I didn't think. I couldn't have talked this way. I was a dumb fool who let others nearly ruin me. I woke up one day, not because I knew what I was doing, but because I needed money. I worked hard. That seemed to be enough. Then—a few days ago, I heard people talking about me. They were saying that you and I were—more than just friends.
"I didn't deny it. I just got drunk. I ran away from them and you. I was, as you said just now, a coward.
"But I know now, today, here, that the pretense is over. You, just by being you, prove that I'm rotten, Howard. Really rotten inside. I'm—"
