按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
And striking himself on the chest； 〃All right； I did it。 There。 I was the one。 Now it's settled。 Now it's over at last…〃
And then suddenly our eyes looked deep into one another's； our glasses faltered in mid…air； went down； and it was back again。
〃But you don't believe that；〃 I whispered； dismayed。
〃And you do；〃 he breathed； stricken。
Oh； it's everything； it's everywhere。
We've gone away； and it's where we go。 It's in the blue depths of Lake Louise； and high up in the fleecy cloud formations above Biscayne Bay。 It rolls restlessly in with the surf at Santa Barbara； and lurks amid the coral rocks of Bermuda； a darker flower than the rest。
We've e back； and it's where we've e back to。
It's between the printed lines on the pages of the books we read。 But it peers forth dark； and they fade off to illegibility。 〃Is he thinking of it now； as I read？ As I am？ I will not look up at him； I will keep my eyes to this； but…is he thinking of it now？〃
It's the hand that holds out its coffee…cup across the breakfast table in the mornings； to have the urn tipped over it。 Bloody…red for a moment in fancy； then back again to pale as it should be。 Or maybe； to the other； it's that other hand opposite one； that does the tipping of the urn； depending upon which side of the table the beholder it sitting。
I saw his eyes rest on my hand one day； and I knew what he was thinking at that instant。 Because I had looked at his hand much the same way on a previous day； and I had been thinking then what he was thinking now。
I saw him close his eyes briefly； to efface the sickly illusion； and I closed mine to dispel the knowledge of it that his had conveyed to me。 Then we both opened them； and smiled at one another； to tell one another nothing had happened just then。
It's in the pictures that we see on the theatre…screen。 〃Let's get out of here； I'm…tired of it； aren't you？〃 （Somebody is going to kill somebody； up there； soon； and he knows it's ing。） But even though we do get up and leave； it's already too late； because he knows why we're leaving； and I know too。 And even if I didn't know until then； this…the very fact of our leaving…has told me。 So the precaution is wasted after all。 It's back in our minds again。
Still； it's wiser to go than to stay。
I remember one night it came too quickly； more suddenly than we could have foretold； there was less warning given。 We were not able to get all the way out in time。 We were still only making our way up the aisle； our backs to the screen； when suddenly a shot rang out； and then a voice groaned in accusation； 〃You've…you've killed me。〃
It seemed to me it was his voice； and that he was speaking to us； to one of us。 It seemed to me； in that moment； that every head in the audience turned； to look our way； to stare at us； with that detached curiosity of a great crowd when someone has been pointed out to them。
My legs for a moment seemed to refuse to carry me any further。 I floundered there for a minute as though I were going to fall down helpless upon the carpeted aisle。 I turned to look at him and I saw； unmisakably； that his head had cringed for a moment； was down defensively between his shoulders。 And he always carried it so straight and erect。 A moment later it was straight again； but just for that instant it hadn't been； it had been hunched。
Then； as though sensing that I needed him just then； because； perhaps； he needed me； he put his arm around my waist； and helped me the rest of the way up the aisle that way； steadying me； promising me support rather than actually giving it to me。
In the lobby； both our faces were like chalk。 We didn't look at one another； it was the mirrors on the side told us that。
We never drink。 We know enough not to。 I think we sense that； rather than close the door on awareness； that would only open it all the wider and let full horror in。 But that particular night； I remember； as we came out； he said； 〃Do you want something？〃
He didn't say a drink； just 〃something。〃 But I understood what that 〃something〃 meant。 〃Yes；〃 I shuddered quietly。
We didn't even wait until we got home； it would have taken us too long。 We went in to a place next door to the theatre； and stood up to the bar for a moment； the two of us alike； and gulped down something on the run。 In three minutes we were out of there again。 Then we got in the car and drove home。 And we never said a word the whole way。
It's in the very kiss we give each other。 Somehow we trap it right between our lips； each time。 （Did I kiss him too strongly？ Will he think by that I forgave him； again； just then？ Did I kiss him too weakly？ Will he think by that I was thinking of it； again； just then？）
It's everywhere； it's all the time； it's us。
I don't know what the game was。 I only know its name； they call it life。
I'm not sure how it should be played。 No one ever told me。 No one ever tells anybody。 I only know we must have played it wrong。 We broke some rule or other along the way； and never knew it at the time。
I don't know what the stakes are。 I only know we've forfeited them； they're not for us。
We've lost。 That's all I know。 We've lost； we've lost。
1
The door was closed。 It had a look of pitiless finality about it； as though it would always be closed like this from now on。 As though nothing in the world could ever make it open again。 Doors can express things。 This one did。 It was inert； it was lifeless； it didn't lead anywhere： It was not the beginning of anything； as a door should be。 It was the ending of something。
Above the push…button there was a small oblong rack； of metal； affixed to the woodwork； intended to frame a name card。 It was empty。 The card was gone。
The girl was standing still in front of the door。 Perfectly still。 The way you stand when you've been standing for a long time； so long； you've forgotten about moving； have grown used to not moving。 Her finger was to the push…button； but it wasn't pushing any more。 No pressure was being exerted； no sound came from the battery behind the door…frame。 It was as though she had been holding it that way so long； she had forgotten to take that； too； away。
She was about nineteen。 A dreary； hopeless nineteen； not a bright； shiny one。 Her features were small and well turned； but there was something too pinched about her face； too wan about her coloring； too thin about her cheeks。 Beauty was there； implicit； ready to reclaim her face if it was given the chance； but something had beaten it back； was keeping it hovering at a distance； unable to alight in its intended realization。
Her hair was hazel…colored； and limp and listless； as though no great heed had been paid to it for some time past The heels of her shoes were a little run…down。 A puckered dam in the heel of her stocking peered just over the top of one。 Her clothing was functional； as though it were worn for the sake of covering； and not for the sake of fashion； or even of appeal。 She was a good height for a girl； about five…six or seven。 But she was too thin； except in one place。
Her head was down a little； as though she were tired of carrying it up straight。 Or as though invisible blows had lowered it； one by one。
She moved