Don put on his jacket; “Come on, I’m taking you to lunch.” You didn’t say no to him. Scarlett hesitated, though, eyebrows raised. “C’mon,” gruffly.
Scarlett pushed out from behind her manual typewriter and shrugged on her light coat, angry pumps clickety clacking behind him down the corridor. She didn’t speak; she dared not unleash the torrent of her words and her irritation at constantly ruffled feathers from Don’s brusque machismo. All these years of it.
In the elevator he glimpsed her anger: “We have been over this. I will NOT be spoken to as though I were your possession. We have had the vote for some years now. Women are their own citizens now.” Icily.
“Got an offer for you.”
Clickety clack, clickety clack. Finally the cafeteria where they always ate.
“I know you and your spinster friends are thinking about buying a little place in the city. You know I don’t want you to quit the publishing house. Stay on part time. You could keep regular abbreviated hours and maybe even keep your own place here, then high-tail it out to your little commune for 3-day weekends. Sounds like a win-win situation, right?”