Коллекционер
Chapter 2
Hestoodforamomentandthenstartedtogoout.Ijumpedtothetable,pickeduptheplateandhurleditathim.Idon’tlikebakedbeans,heknowsit,Isupposehe’dbeenlazy.Iwasn’tinatemper,Ijustpretended.Hestoodtherewiththefilthylittlebitsoforangesauceonhisso-cleanclothesandlookingsheepish.Idon’twantanylunch,Isnappedathim.Andturnedmyback.
Iatechocolatesalltheafternoon.Hedidn’treappearuntilsupper-time.Therewascaviareandsmokedsalmonandcoldchicken(hebuysthemready-cookedsomewhere)—allthingsheknowsIlike—andadozenotherthingsheknowsIlike,thecunningbrute.It’snotthebuyingthemthat’scunning,it’sjustthatIcan’thelpbeinggrateful(Ididn’tactuallysayIwasgrateful,butIwasn’tsharp),it’sthathepresentsthemsohumbly,withsuchanairofplease-don’t-thank-meandI-deserve-it-all.Whenhewasarrangingmysupper-thingsonthetable,Ihadanirresistibledesiretogiggle.Awful.Iwantedtocollapseonthebedandscream.Hewassoperfectlyhimself.AndIamsocoopedup.
Downheremymoodschangesorapidly.Alldeterminationtodoonethingonehour;allforanotherthenext.
It’snouse.I’mnotahaterbynature.It’sasifsomewhereinmeacertainamountofgood-willandkindnessismanufacturedeveryday;anditmustcomeout.IfIbottleitup,thenitburstsout.
Iwasn’tnicetohim,Idon’twanttobenicetohim,Ishan’tbenicetohim.
