What About Alice?

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Bill Sanders, faced with, a deadline set by the agency — combined with no desire to get to work — paced back and forth through his cluttered apartment. He tried not to see the typewriter, smoked countless cigarettes which tasted flat and stale, scratched at the stubble on his chin. It was midafternoon, with winter rain whipping against the west windows.

He was grateful for the knock on his door, knowing that for a while, at least, he wouldn’t have to dredge his sluggish mind for sparkling ideas.

It was Stan Quinn, the fellow that Morgan was breaking in on public relations — a tall, dark, friendly fellow, but still a bit awkward with the older men in the agency. It seemed odd that Quinn should drop in. Bill had been friendly to him, but not particularly chummy. Probably had something on his mind. It would be best to let him work up to the point in his own time.

Stan followed Bill into the kitchen while he broke out two bottles of beer. They went back into the front room and sat by the windows. Bill noticed that Stan acted ill at ease — almost ashamed.

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