1984

           ‘Icanrememberlemons,’saidWinston. ‘Theywerequitecommoninthefifties. Theyweresosourthatitsetyourteethonedgeeventosmellthem.’ 

           ‘Ibetthatpicture’sgotbugsbehindit,’saidJulia. ‘I’lltakeitdownandgiveitagoodcleansomeday. Isupposeit’salmosttimewewereleaving. Imuststartwashingthispaintoff. Whatabore! I’llgetthelipstickoffyourfaceafterwards.’ 

           Winstondidnotgetupforafewminutesmore. Theroomwasdarkening. Heturnedovertowardsthelightandlaygazingintotheglasspaperweight. Theinexhaustiblyinterestingthingwasnotthefragmentofcoralbuttheinterioroftheglassitself. Therewassuchadepthofit,andyetitwasalmostastransparentasair. Itwasasthoughthesurfaceoftheglasshadbeenthearchofthesky,enclosingatinyworldwithitsatmospherecomplete. Hehadthefeelingthathecouldgetinsideit,andthatinfacthewasinsideit,alongwiththemahoganybedandthegatelegtable,andtheclockandthesteelengravingandthepaperweightitself. Thepaperweightwastheroomhewasin,andthecoralwasJulia’slifeandhisown,fixedinasortofeternityattheheartofthecrystal.