From the story, When Murray Met Helen

Helen being Helen, it was just impossible for her to let a guy have the last word in a spat, even if it was a playful joust, even if the guy was fifty years older.

“You devil!” she said, folding her reading glasses atop the Travel section of the Sentinal-Journal and briskly retreating inside, to change from the red bikini into the souvenir Brewers jersey that an old boyfriend had given her. It was white, with the gold and blue numeral 20 on it, with “Thomas” across the back, as in Gorman Thomas, the belovedly-bearded former center fielder and home run king.

She came back out, still fumbling with the buttons, and cleared her throat, as if that was necessary to get his attention.

“Now what do you think?”

Murray looked up from his trowel work, smiled gamely, and tried to whistle.

“A little dry in the mouth are we?” she replied.

“Fine,” he replied. “Wait right there.”

And with that he went inside to make a phone call.

The next she heard was his voice calling across the fence from his bedroom window.

“Helen! A week from Wednesday. White Sox. You in?”

“I’m on the bus.”

“Oh,” he added. “And you’ll want to wear a bra with that thing. You know that, right? It’s a family show.”

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