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We had gone to dinner at the China Pig. Jim was upset, but quiet. I remember. I'd worn a black crepe gown and he knocked a drink over. I went to the ladies to rinse it out and as I was coming back, Enos walked in haughty and windblown as a beachball. He saw Jim and slung a drunken arm round, waved a leering cackle in his face, spun his nose out like a jetty. Jim boxed, asked him to go away. But Enos remained sandfilled and ready to clown, so old love that I could feel the masculine vexation; I could see the reasons—my husbands rolling with the floor.