“I’ve been fired, Agnes!” Norman fumed, the whites of his eyes, framed by his scarlet red face, boring into her like Galileo’s microscope. Why’d she think of Galileo at a time like this, Agnes asked herself, just lke she’d thought about Socrates drinking hemlock when Mama told her Daddy died. What kind of cup did Socrates use, Sister Mary James, a pewter mug or a ceramic jug?
She stuttered out her reply and forgot what she’d planned to say – “Oh, Norman, I’m very upset –“
“I can’t talk now, Agnes. I have to leave. I have to, I have to watch my father balance the receipts. I can’t talk now.” And he closed the elevator doors and was gone. Probably forever.
It’d been so easy, working in the same architectural firm. But no, the Depression had gotten worse, so instead of your neighbor losing his job, you lost it, too. But Agnes had kept hers – though, of course, she’d never earn more than a dollar a day with her meager pittance of a job.
And then it took Agnes two weeks – before she saw Norman again, before she got up the courage to say to herself, “Enough of pining away for Norman Balmoral. I’m going to find him and kiss him until we both turn blue.”
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