Сияние

“It Was Her!”

           Hetookhishandkerchieffromhisbackpocket,wipedhislipswithit,andconsideredgoingdownandpoundingonthebedroomdoor,demandingtobeletinsohecouldseehisson.Shehadnorighttobesogoddamhighhanded.

           Well,soonerorlatershe’dhavetocomeout,unlesssheplannedaradicalsortofdietforthetwoofthem.Aratheruglygrintouchedhislipsatthethought.Lethercometohim.Shewouldintime.

           Hewentdownstairstothegroundfloor,stoodaimlesslybythelobbydeskforamoment,thenturnedright.Hewentintothediningroomandstoodjustinsidethedoor.Theemptytables,theirwhitelinenclothsneatlycleanedandpressedbeneaththeirclearplasticcovers,glimmeredupathim.Allwasdesertednowbut

           (DinnerWillBeServedat8P.M.

           UnmaskingandDancingAtMidnight)

           Jackwalkedamongthetables,momentarilyforgettinghiswifeandsonupstairs,forgettingthedream,thesmashedradio,thebruises.Hetrailedhisfingersovertheslickplasticdustcovers,tryingtoimaginehowitmusthavebeenonthat

           hotAugustnightin1945,thewarwon,thefuturestretchingaheadsovariousandnew,likealandofdreams.ThebrightandparticoloredJapaneselanternshungthewholelengthofthecirculardrive,thegolden-yellowlightspillingfromthesehighwindowsthatwerenowdriftedoverwithsnow.

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