that everything was happening to him lately. As if some revenging power had taken roost in the house, pouring a savage life into inanimate things. Threatening him. But the thought was just a faceless, passing figure in the crushing horde of thoughts that mobbed past his mind's eye; seen but not appreciated.
He drew the glass sliver from his palm. He put on his dark tie.
Then he went into the dining room, consulting his watch. It was ten thirty already. More than half the morning was gone.
More than half the time for sitting and trying to write the prose that would make people sit up and gasp.
It happened that way more often now than he would even admit to himself. Sleeping late, making up errands, doing anything to forestall the terrible moment when he must sit down before his typewriter and try to wrench some harvest from the growing desert of his mind.
It was harder every time. And he grew more angry every time; and hated more. And never noticed until now, when it was too late, that Sally had grown desperate and could no longer stand his temper or his hate.
She was sitting at the kitchen table drinking dark coffee. She too drank more than she once had. Like him, she drank it black, without sugar. It jangled her nerves too. And she smoked now although she'd never smoked until a year before. She got no pleasure from it. She drew the fumes deep down into her lungs and then blew them out quickly. And her hands shook almost as badly as his did.
He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down across from her. She started to get up.
"What's the matter? Can't you stand the sight of me?"
She sat back and took a deep pull on the cigarette in her hand. Then she stamped it out on the saucer.
He felt sick. He wanted to get out of the house suddenly. It felt alien and strange to him. He had the feeling that she had renounced all claim to it, that she had retreated from it. The touch of her fingers and the loving indulgences she had bestowed on every room; all these things were taken back. They had lost tangibility because she was leaving. She was deserting it and it was not their home anymore. He felt it strongly.
Sinking back against the chair he pushed away his cup and stared at the yellow oilcloth on the table. He felt as if he and Sally were frozen in time; that seconds were drawn out like some fantastic taffy until each one seemed an eternity. The clock ticked slower. And the house was a different house.
"What train are you getting?" he asked, knowing before he spoke that there was only one morning train.
"Eleven forty-seven," she said.
When she said it, he felt as if his stomach were pulled back hard against his backbone. He gasped, so actual was the physical pain. She glanced up at him.
"Burned myself," he said hastily, and she got up and put her cup and saucer in the sink.
Why did I say that?-he thought. Why couldn't I say that I gasped because I was filled with terror at the thought of her leaving me? Why do I always say the things I don't mean to say? I'm not bad. But every time I speak I build higher the walls of hatred and bitterness around me until I cannot escape from them.
With words I have knit my shroud and will bury myself therein.
He looked at her back and a sad smile raised his lips. I can think of words when my wife is leaving me. It is very sad.
Sally had walked out of the kitchen. His mind reverted to its sullen attitude. This is a game we're playing. Follow the leader. You walk in one room, head high, the justified spouse, the injured party. I am supposed to follow, slope shouldered and contrite, pouring out apologetic hecatombs.
Once more conscious of himself, he sat tensely at the table, rage making his body tremble. Consciously he relaxed and pressed his left hand over his eyes. He sat there trying to lose his misery in silence and blackness.
It wouldn't work.
And then his cigarette really burned him and he sat erect. The cigarette hit the floor scattering ashes. He bent over and picked it
He drew the glass sliver from his palm. He put on his dark tie.
Then he went into the dining room, consulting his watch. It was ten thirty already. More than half the morning was gone.
More than half the time for sitting and trying to write the prose that would make people sit up and gasp.
It happened that way more often now than he would even admit to himself. Sleeping late, making up errands, doing anything to forestall the terrible moment when he must sit down before his typewriter and try to wrench some harvest from the growing desert of his mind.
It was harder every time. And he grew more angry every time; and hated more. And never noticed until now, when it was too late, that Sally had grown desperate and could no longer stand his temper or his hate.
She was sitting at the kitchen table drinking dark coffee. She too drank more than she once had. Like him, she drank it black, without sugar. It jangled her nerves too. And she smoked now although she'd never smoked until a year before. She got no pleasure from it. She drew the fumes deep down into her lungs and then blew them out quickly. And her hands shook almost as badly as his did.
He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down across from her. She started to get up.
"What's the matter? Can't you stand the sight of me?"
She sat back and took a deep pull on the cigarette in her hand. Then she stamped it out on the saucer.
He felt sick. He wanted to get out of the house suddenly. It felt alien and strange to him. He had the feeling that she had renounced all claim to it, that she had retreated from it. The touch of her fingers and the loving indulgences she had bestowed on every room; all these things were taken back. They had lost tangibility because she was leaving. She was deserting it and it was not their home anymore. He felt it strongly.
Sinking back against the chair he pushed away his cup and stared at the yellow oilcloth on the table. He felt as if he and Sally were frozen in time; that seconds were drawn out like some fantastic taffy until each one seemed an eternity. The clock ticked slower. And the house was a different house.
"What train are you getting?" he asked, knowing before he spoke that there was only one morning train.
"Eleven forty-seven," she said.
When she said it, he felt as if his stomach were pulled back hard against his backbone. He gasped, so actual was the physical pain. She glanced up at him.
"Burned myself," he said hastily, and she got up and put her cup and saucer in the sink.
Why did I say that?-he thought. Why couldn't I say that I gasped because I was filled with terror at the thought of her leaving me? Why do I always say the things I don't mean to say? I'm not bad. But every time I speak I build higher the walls of hatred and bitterness around me until I cannot escape from them.
With words I have knit my shroud and will bury myself therein.
He looked at her back and a sad smile raised his lips. I can think of words when my wife is leaving me. It is very sad.
Sally had walked out of the kitchen. His mind reverted to its sullen attitude. This is a game we're playing. Follow the leader. You walk in one room, head high, the justified spouse, the injured party. I am supposed to follow, slope shouldered and contrite, pouring out apologetic hecatombs.
Once more conscious of himself, he sat tensely at the table, rage making his body tremble. Consciously he relaxed and pressed his left hand over his eyes. He sat there trying to lose his misery in silence and blackness.
It wouldn't work.
And then his cigarette really burned him and he sat erect. The cigarette hit the floor scattering ashes. He bent over and picked it
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