cabinet, opened it, and studied the row of bottles. There was an untouched bottle of gin. The smell of the bedroom was still in her nostrils, and the bottle repelled her. She reached for the French brandy, and a snifter above, and went into the dining room. She poured the snifter full, brought it to her nose, inhaling the aroma (which was unaccountably bitter), and then hastily drank.
She heard the coffee pot boiling in the kitchen. She finished the snifter, hastily filled it again, and then went in for her coffee. She shut off the burner. The coffee seemed superfluous right now. She leaned against the sink and drank the brandy. The burning in her throat was hardly noticeable now, and she was beginning to feel warm at the forehead. She finished the snifter, and replenished it a second time. She sipped it slowly, determined that this should be her last. There was the young manager of that food market in The Village Green, a nice blond boy, who was always very friendly. Maybe he wanted to be serious. Maybe she should encourage him. They could go to a movie tonight. It might be the beginning of something that made sense, at last. How could she have been so foolish at that foolish school? How could she have let that mere boy, a student, take her into the back yard? Or had she taken him? It was hard to remember; it had been so horrible. He-who was he? -the boy-he was a senior anyway, and she was younger then-he, she meant her husband, was going to be in the lab until ten. Or was it nine? It was so difficult to sort it out.
She stared glassily at the snifter. It was empty. She had only been sipping it. Maybe she had spilled it. She looked down at the floor. No. She took the bottle and poured. She would sip slowly and drive to the drugstore. The man at the register was always nice. And more her type. He really liked her. Maybe he was too shy to ask for a date. Of course he was shy. The way he blushed last week when she asked for a box of sanitary napkins. Wasn’t-wasn’t it -was it not funny the way things were? When she was in high school, she would almost sneak in for sanitary pads, always search and find the plain wrapped box, as if no one knew then, and it was a crime. And later, in her twenties, she would ask for the box briskly, but quickly. And now she was starting in her thirties, and she asked for the box too loudly, as if she was proud that she was still a full-blown woman.
The doorbell was ringing. Her ears were buzzing, and so she listened to be very, very sure. It was the doorbell. She stood up-when had she sat down?-and walked with studied care past the refrigerator, through the service porch, carefully unlocked the door and opened it.
“Good mornin’, Ma’am.” He was standing, leaning sideways, because he was carrying a large bottle of spring water on one shoulder. He was so tall he would bump his head, except he was sideways. She inclined her head to examine his sideways face. Bush of chestnut hair. Eyes too narrow. Nose too long. Lips too full. Everything too much. But he was smiling. He was friendly. He liked her. He was tall.
“Another fine day, goin’ to be,” he added. She was behind the door, opening it farther, as he came through and lowered the bottle to the floor.
“You’re new,” she said thickly.
“Takin’ two routes today. Hank’s down with the bug.”
“Oh.”
He wiped the bottle quickly, unscrewed the cap, rose to remove the old bottle from the container; then, with apparently no effort, hoisted the filled bottle high and tipped it into the tank. He watched with a certain satisfaction as the fresh water seeped, gurgling, into the tank.
“There you are,” he said, turning. “Now you’re set up for another two weeks.”
“Good service,” she said. She saw that he was staring at her awkwardly, and she remembered that she had on no brassiere or pants beneath her peignoir. But the folds kept the negligee from being fully transparent. So what was he staring at anyway? Maybe
She heard the coffee pot boiling in the kitchen. She finished the snifter, hastily filled it again, and then went in for her coffee. She shut off the burner. The coffee seemed superfluous right now. She leaned against the sink and drank the brandy. The burning in her throat was hardly noticeable now, and she was beginning to feel warm at the forehead. She finished the snifter, and replenished it a second time. She sipped it slowly, determined that this should be her last. There was the young manager of that food market in The Village Green, a nice blond boy, who was always very friendly. Maybe he wanted to be serious. Maybe she should encourage him. They could go to a movie tonight. It might be the beginning of something that made sense, at last. How could she have been so foolish at that foolish school? How could she have let that mere boy, a student, take her into the back yard? Or had she taken him? It was hard to remember; it had been so horrible. He-who was he? -the boy-he was a senior anyway, and she was younger then-he, she meant her husband, was going to be in the lab until ten. Or was it nine? It was so difficult to sort it out.
She stared glassily at the snifter. It was empty. She had only been sipping it. Maybe she had spilled it. She looked down at the floor. No. She took the bottle and poured. She would sip slowly and drive to the drugstore. The man at the register was always nice. And more her type. He really liked her. Maybe he was too shy to ask for a date. Of course he was shy. The way he blushed last week when she asked for a box of sanitary napkins. Wasn’t-wasn’t it -was it not funny the way things were? When she was in high school, she would almost sneak in for sanitary pads, always search and find the plain wrapped box, as if no one knew then, and it was a crime. And later, in her twenties, she would ask for the box briskly, but quickly. And now she was starting in her thirties, and she asked for the box too loudly, as if she was proud that she was still a full-blown woman.
The doorbell was ringing. Her ears were buzzing, and so she listened to be very, very sure. It was the doorbell. She stood up-when had she sat down?-and walked with studied care past the refrigerator, through the service porch, carefully unlocked the door and opened it.
“Good mornin’, Ma’am.” He was standing, leaning sideways, because he was carrying a large bottle of spring water on one shoulder. He was so tall he would bump his head, except he was sideways. She inclined her head to examine his sideways face. Bush of chestnut hair. Eyes too narrow. Nose too long. Lips too full. Everything too much. But he was smiling. He was friendly. He liked her. He was tall.
“Another fine day, goin’ to be,” he added. She was behind the door, opening it farther, as he came through and lowered the bottle to the floor.
“You’re new,” she said thickly.
“Takin’ two routes today. Hank’s down with the bug.”
“Oh.”
He wiped the bottle quickly, unscrewed the cap, rose to remove the old bottle from the container; then, with apparently no effort, hoisted the filled bottle high and tipped it into the tank. He watched with a certain satisfaction as the fresh water seeped, gurgling, into the tank.
“There you are,” he said, turning. “Now you’re set up for another two weeks.”
“Good service,” she said. She saw that he was staring at her awkwardly, and she remembered that she had on no brassiere or pants beneath her peignoir. But the folds kept the negligee from being fully transparent. So what was he staring at anyway? Maybe
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