A Perfect Day For Bananafish
the young man put on his robe, closed the lapels tight, and jammed his towel into his pocket. he picked up the slimy wet, cumbersome float and put it under his arm. he plodded alone through the soft, hot sand toward the hotel.
on the sub-menu floor of the hotel, which the management directed bathers to use, a woman with zinc salve on her nose got into the elevator wtih the young man.
“i see you’re looking at my feet,” he said to her when the car was in motion.
“i beg your pardon?” said the woman.
“i said i see you’re looking at my feet.”
“i beg your pardon. i happened to be looking at the floor,” said the woman, and faced the doors of the car.
“if you want to look at my feet, say so,” said the young man. “but don’t be a god-damned sneak about it.”
“let me out here please,” the woman said quickly to the girl operating the car.
the car doors opened and the woman got out without looking back.
“i have two normal feet + i can’t see the slightest god-damned reason why anybody should stare at them,” said the young man. “five, please,”
