Being free. Like
taking off your hot, hot clothes and lying in water when you were too hot
and tired even to think of sleeping. Oliver too--she'd leave him free--
he'd really work better without her--without having her to take care of
and make money for and worry about always----
The mind turned the other way. But what would doing anything be like with
Oliver out of it when doing things together had been all that mattered all
the last year?
They couldn't decide things like this on a prickly hot August night when
both of them were nearly dead with fatigue. It wasn't _real_. Even after
Oliver had shut the door she'd been sure he'd come back, though she hoped
he wouldn't just while she was crying; she never had been, she thought
viciously, one of those happy people who look like rain-goddesses when
they cry.
He must come back. She shut her eyes and told him to as hard as she could.
But he didn't.
All very well to be proud and dignified when both of you lived near each
other. But Oliver was going back to New York tomorrow--and if he went back
while they were still like this--She knew his train--the ten seven.
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