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"Your place looks like the World's Fair," I said.
"Does it?" He turned his eyes toward it absently. "I have been glancing into some of the rooms. Let's go to Coney Island, old sport. In my car."
"It's too late."
"Well, suppose we take a plunge in the swimming-pool? I haven't made use of it all summer."
"I've got to go to bed."
"All right." (5.3-8)
Gatsby has a house full of people, and all he wants is one friend to go swimming with him. Talk about lonely.
Thirty – the promise of a decade of loneliness, a thinning list of single men to know, a thinning brief-case of enthusiasm, thinning hair. But there was Jordan beside me, who, unlike Daisy, was too wise ever to carry well-forgotten dreams from age to age. As we passed over the dark bridge her wan face fell lazily against my coat's shoulder and the formidable stroke of thirty died away with the reassuring pressure of her hand. (7.308)
Having seen the wrong end of thirty, Shmoop can assure Nick that it really isn't that bad. But at least he has someone to keep him company, right? Well, yeah—until things start going south and she's out. (But Nick is totally right about all the thirty-something men being married. Just saying.)
He stayed there a week, walking the streets where their footsteps had clicked together through the November night and revisiting the out-of-the-way places to which they had driven in her white car. (8.28)
Once Daisy leaves him, Gatsby walks the streets alone. Probably in the rain. And in rags. Sorry, dude: we know how this scene ends.