“Eyes shut?”
He nodded, numbly. He felt her weight upon the bed and heard the sheets part and whisper as she drifted in.
“Open your eyes.”
He opened them but it was the same as on the train, where, turned away, he saw only a silhouette cutout, and here, though she faced toward him, she blocked the lamp so the lamp made her a hillock of shadow with no features. He tried to find her face, he knew it was there, but his eyes wouldn’t focus.
“Good evening,” she said.
“Evening.”
And after a moment as she gained her breath and he did the same, she said, “My, that was a long trip.”
“Too long. I could hardly wait—”
“Don’t say,” she said.
He looked at the long shadow and the pale face with dim outlines of features.
“But …”
“Don’t say,” she said.
He held his breath for he knew she would go on in a moment. She did.
“Teachers say if you write a story you must never name what you’re trying to write. Just do it. When it’s over you’ll know what you’ve done. So … don’t say.”
It was the most she had said all evening. Now she fell silent, a shadow against the light. And now the lamp went dark without, it seemed, her turning to touch it. He saw the merest gesture in the shadows. Something soft fell to the floor. It was a moment before he realized it was her gloves. She had taken off her gloves.
Surprised, he sensed that the only thing that he still wore was his gloves. But when he tried to work them off he found that he had already tossed them aside in the dark. Now his hands were revealed and vulnerable. He pulled back.
He opened his mouth but she stopped him.
“Don’t say anything.”
He felt her move a small move, toward him.
“Say only one thing.”
He nodded, wondering what it would be.
“Tell me,” she said very quietly. He could not make out her face, it was still like the face in the window glass on the night train, traveling from station to station, a dark silhouette fixed between late-night TV channels, and pale and hidden.
“Tell me,” she said. He nodded. “How old are you?”
His mouth gaped. He felt his eyes panic in his head. She repeated the question, implying the answer. Suddenly he absolutely knew the right and amazing truth. He shut his eyes, cleared his throat, and at last let his tongue move.
“I’m …” he said.
“Yes?”
“I’m eighteen, nineteen in August, five feet eight, one hundred fifty pounds, brown hair, blue eyes. Unattached.”
He imagined he heard her very softly echo every word that he had said.
He felt her shift, weightless, closer and still closer.
“Say that again,” she whispered.
The end
