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Authors: Valerie Martin
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myself.”
“God, what a jerk. Don’t think about it.”
Anne was suddenly very tired. “No,” she said, “I won’t.”
“Stay a while,” her friend urged. “Stay till everyone is gone. Then we can talk.”
“I want to go home,” Anne replied. “I want to drink some hot milk and wear my flannel pajamas and socks to bed.”
“It’s so cold,” her friend agreed.
By the time she got to her car the temperature had dropped another five degrees. The wind whipped the treetops and riffled the foliage. Overhead the sky took on sheen, as if it had received a coat of wax. Anne was oblivious of everything save her own humiliation, which she did not ponder. Rather, she held it close to her and wrapped her senses around it. It was a trick she knew for postponing tears, a kind of physical brooding that kept the consciousness of pain at bay. She steered the car mindlessly around corners, waited at lights, turned up the long entrance to the expressway. There was hardly any traffic; she could drive as rapidly as she liked; but she only accelerated to forty-five. She looked down upon the quiet, sleepy city as she passed over it, and it seemed to her mysterious, like a sleeping animal breathing quietly beneath her. This must be what death is like, she thought. Coming into some place alien yet familiar.
That was stupid; that was the way people hoped it would be. But what would it be like? She asked herself this question as personally as she could, speaking to herself, who, after all, would miss her more than anyone. What, she asked, will your death be like?
Death was perhaps far away, but at that moment, because of her solitude, it seemed that he drew incautiously near, and she imagined his arms closing about her like a lover’s. She shrugged. He was so promiscuous. Who could be flattered when sooner or later he would open his arms to all? Yet, she thought, it must be quite thrilling, really, to know oneself at last held in his cold, hollow eyes. Who else can love as death loves; who craves as death craves?
At home she found Hannah awake, surprised at being relieved so early.
“It’s getting ugly out there,” Anne told her. “You’d better go while you still can.” She stood on the porch and watched the girl safely to her car. Now, she thought. Now, let’s see how I am.
She closed the porch door and sat down on the couch, flicking off the lamp and plunging the room into welcome darkness. Tears rose to her eyes, but didn’t overflow. Only her vision was blurred and a pleasant numbness welled up, so that she didn’t care even to rub the tears away.
Surely this was not important, she thought. It was not an important event. Not worth considering. He was too young; that was all. She had misread him. It wasn’t serious. He was flattered, he had said, and that word pricked her. If only he had not said that.
She covered her face with her hands and moaned. Never had she felt such shame; never had she been so thoroughly humiliated. The clear, distinct, precise memory of the failed kiss developed like a strip of film in her memory—his stiffening and drawing away, her own inability to comprehend it so that she had left her hands on his shoulders for many moments when it should have been clear to her that she should release him. He had so immediately withdrawn his lips from her own that she had found her mouth pressed briefly against the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then thin air. She had staggered away, she knew now, though she had not known it then, staggered to the tree, which had the courtesy to remain solid and hold her up. There she had remained, devoid of feeling, while he beat his retreat, but now the bitterness came flooding in, and it was so pure and thick that she could scarcely swallow.
Ah, she hated him. He had known all along; he had teased her and smiled at her, confided his sophomoric fears and absurd ambitions to her, laughed at her weak jokes, observed her growing affection for him, encouraged
“God, what a jerk. Don’t think about it.”
Anne was suddenly very tired. “No,” she said, “I won’t.”
“Stay a while,” her friend urged. “Stay till everyone is gone. Then we can talk.”
“I want to go home,” Anne replied. “I want to drink some hot milk and wear my flannel pajamas and socks to bed.”
“It’s so cold,” her friend agreed.
By the time she got to her car the temperature had dropped another five degrees. The wind whipped the treetops and riffled the foliage. Overhead the sky took on sheen, as if it had received a coat of wax. Anne was oblivious of everything save her own humiliation, which she did not ponder. Rather, she held it close to her and wrapped her senses around it. It was a trick she knew for postponing tears, a kind of physical brooding that kept the consciousness of pain at bay. She steered the car mindlessly around corners, waited at lights, turned up the long entrance to the expressway. There was hardly any traffic; she could drive as rapidly as she liked; but she only accelerated to forty-five. She looked down upon the quiet, sleepy city as she passed over it, and it seemed to her mysterious, like a sleeping animal breathing quietly beneath her. This must be what death is like, she thought. Coming into some place alien yet familiar.
That was stupid; that was the way people hoped it would be. But what would it be like? She asked herself this question as personally as she could, speaking to herself, who, after all, would miss her more than anyone. What, she asked, will your death be like?
Death was perhaps far away, but at that moment, because of her solitude, it seemed that he drew incautiously near, and she imagined his arms closing about her like a lover’s. She shrugged. He was so promiscuous. Who could be flattered when sooner or later he would open his arms to all? Yet, she thought, it must be quite thrilling, really, to know oneself at last held in his cold, hollow eyes. Who else can love as death loves; who craves as death craves?
At home she found Hannah awake, surprised at being relieved so early.
“It’s getting ugly out there,” Anne told her. “You’d better go while you still can.” She stood on the porch and watched the girl safely to her car. Now, she thought. Now, let’s see how I am.
She closed the porch door and sat down on the couch, flicking off the lamp and plunging the room into welcome darkness. Tears rose to her eyes, but didn’t overflow. Only her vision was blurred and a pleasant numbness welled up, so that she didn’t care even to rub the tears away.
Surely this was not important, she thought. It was not an important event. Not worth considering. He was too young; that was all. She had misread him. It wasn’t serious. He was flattered, he had said, and that word pricked her. If only he had not said that.
She covered her face with her hands and moaned. Never had she felt such shame; never had she been so thoroughly humiliated. The clear, distinct, precise memory of the failed kiss developed like a strip of film in her memory—his stiffening and drawing away, her own inability to comprehend it so that she had left her hands on his shoulders for many moments when it should have been clear to her that she should release him. He had so immediately withdrawn his lips from her own that she had found her mouth pressed briefly against the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then thin air. She had staggered away, she knew now, though she had not known it then, staggered to the tree, which had the courtesy to remain solid and hold her up. There she had remained, devoid of feeling, while he beat his retreat, but now the bitterness came flooding in, and it was so pure and thick that she could scarcely swallow.
Ah, she hated him. He had known all along; he had teased her and smiled at her, confided his sophomoric fears and absurd ambitions to her, laughed at her weak jokes, observed her growing affection for him, encouraged
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