Зима тревоги нашей

           Hisfacewasthinandhislipsverychappedbuthishandswereswollenlikehot-waterbottles,asthoughtheyhadbeenwasp-stung.

           Hestooduptoshakehandsandmyrighthandwasfoldedinthewarm,rubberymass.Heputsomethinginmyhand,somethingsmallandheavyandcool,aboutthesizeofakeybutnotakey—ashape,ametalthingthatfeltsharp-edgedandpolished.Idon’tknowwhatitwasbecauseIdidn’tlookatit,Ionlyfeltit.Ileanednearandkissedhimonthemouthandwithmylipsfelthisdrylipsallchappedandrough.Iawakenedthen,shakenandcold.Thedawnhadcome.Icouldseethelakebutnotthecowstandinginit,andIcouldstillfeelthechappeddrylips.IgotupinstantlybecauseIdidn’twanttolietherethinkingaboutit.Ididn’tmakecoffeebutIwenttotheelephant’sfootandsawthatthewickedclubcalledacanewasstillthere.

           Itwasthethrobbingtimeofdawn,andhotandhumid,forthemorningwindhadnotstartedtoblow.Thestreetwasgrayandsilverandthesidewalkgreasywiththedepositofhumanity.TheForemastercoffeeshopwasn’topen,butIdidn’twantcoffeeanyway.Iwentthroughthealleyandopenedmybackdoor—lookedinthefrontandsawtheleatherhatboxbehindthecounter.Iopenedacoffeecan,pouredthecoffeeinthegarbagepail.ThenIpunchedtwoholesinacanofcondensedmilkandsquirteditintothecoffeecan,proppedthebackdooropen,andputthecanintheentrance.