Read You're All Alone (illustrated) for Free Online

the wide empty sidewalk seemed strange and lonely so close to the boulevard with its humming cars and its fringe of people and lights on the other side.
    Her arm tightened a little on his. “This is fun,” she said.
    “What?”
    “Having a date.”
    “I shouldn’t think you’d have any trouble,” he told her.
    “Oh? You don’t know anything about my troubles—and we’re not going to talk about them tonight! Here we turn again.”
    THEY WERE opposite the public library. She led him across the boulevard. It seemed to Carr the loneliness followed them, for they passed only two people as they went by the library.
    They squinted against blown grit. A sheet of newspaper flapped against their faces. Carr ripped it away and it swooped up into the air.
    Jane led him down a cobbled alley choked with fire escapes, down some steps and into a little tavern.
    The place was dimly lit. None of the booths were occupied. At the bar two men contemplated half empty glasses of beer.
    “What’ll you have?” Carr asked Jane.
    “Let’s wait a bit,” she said, steering him instead to the last booth. Neither the two drinkers nor the fat and solemn bartender looked up as they went past.
    They looked at each other across the splotched table. Color had come into Jane’s cheeks. Carr found himself thinking of college days, when there had been hip flasks and roadsters and checks from home and classes to cut.
    “It’s funny,” he said, “I’ve gone past this alley a hundred times and never noticed this place.”
    “Cities are like that,” she said. “You think you know them when all you know are routes through them.” We’re even beginning to talk about life, Carr thought.
    One of the beer-drinkers put two nickels in the jukebox. Low strains eddied out.
    Carr looked toward the bar. “Maybe they don’t serve at the tables now,” he said.
    “Who cares?” she said. “Let’s dance.”
    “I don’t imagine it’s allowed,” he said. “They’d have to have another license.”
    “I told you you were scared of life,” she said gayly. “Come on.” There wasn’t much space, but enough. With what struck Carr as-a grave and laudable politeness, the beer-drinkers paid no attention to them at all, though one beat time softly with the bottom of his glass against his palm.
    Jane danced badly, but after a while she got better. Somewhat solemnly they revolved in a modest circle. She said nothing until almost the end of the first number. Then, in a choked voice—
    “It’s been so long since I’ve danced with anyone.”
    “Not with your man with glasses?” Carr asked.
    She shook her head. “He’s too scared of life all the time. He can’t relax—not even pretend.”
    The second record started. Her expression cleared. She rested her cheek against his shoulder. “I’ve got a theory about life,” she said dreamily. “I think life has a rhythm. It keeps changing with the time of day and year, but it’s always there. People feel it without knowing it and it governs their lives.”
    “Like the music of the spheres?” Carr suggested.
    “Yes, only that makes it sound too nice.”
    “What do you mean, Jane?”
    “Nothing.”
    Another couple came in, took one of the front booths. The bartender wiped his hands on his apron, pushed up a wicket in the bar, and walked over to them.
    The music stopped. Carr dug in his pocket for more nickels, but she shook her head. They slid back into their booth.
    “I hope I didn’t embarrass you,” she said.
    “Of course not.”
    A TELEPHONE rang. The fat bartender carefully put down the tray of drinks he had mixed for the other couple and went to answer it.
    “Sure you don’t want to dance some more?” Carr asked.
    “No. let’s just let things happen to us.”
    “A good idea,” Carr agreed, “provided you don’t push it too far. For instance, we did come here to get a drink, didn’t we?”
    “Yes, we did,” Jane agreed. The impish expression returned to her eyes. She glanced