This preview shows page 1. Sign up to view the full content.
Unformatted text preview: , and then she heard his tread on the tile floor. She heard him whistling, humming. Oh, God, thank you, God. Another key. Another lock, and that fragrance, the soft good fra- grance of him as he drew close to the bed. She tried to feel hate, to grow rigid with it, to resist the compassion- ate expression on his face, his large glistening eyes, so very beautiful as only eyes can be, and filled with sorrow as he looked at her. His beard and mustache were now very black and thick and like those of saints in pictures. His forehead was exquisitely shaped where the hair grew back from it, parted in the center with the smallest widow's peak. Yes, a beautiful being, undeniably beautiful. Maybe he wasn't there. Maybe she was dreaming. Maybe it was all imagined that he had finally come back. "No, my darling dear, I love you," he whispered. Or did he? As he drew closer, she realized she was looking at his mouth. There had been a subtle change to his mouth. It was more a man's mouth, perhaps, pink and decisivel...
View Full Document
This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10