The Magic Valentines

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It began on a gun-metal evening in early winter, at the end of one of those dreary Manhattan days when the office windows were alight by three in the afternoon. Jerry Bowen, of the Claims Department, had stayed late to finish up a report that had to be typed first thing in the morning. It was nearly six when he walked down the corridor toward the elevators. The whole floor had an empty, echoing, after-hours feel about it.

He looked toward the evening with distaste. Two years ago the town had seemed wonderfully exciting. Now he knew of at least three apartments where friends maintained seemingly permanent parties, where he would be welcome, but he did not want another of those evenings of predictable girls, predictable small talk, and the mild, highly predictable hangover. This was perhaps a night to hole up, eat a quick meal and read a book. But that seemed equally tasteless. He hoped it wouldn’t be another of those restless evenings of walking too many miles through the bright, meaningless streets.

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