108
PHILIP L. GREENE
Rollie puffed and Sherry puffed and an acrid haze hung thinly
in the room. They talked through the haze:
ing.
SHERRY: Cool, isn't it?
ROLLIE: I don't feel anything.
SHERRY: Time wounds all heels.
RoLLlE: I expected
Walpurgisnacht.
SHERRY: You know it.
ROLLIE: What am I supposed to feel?
SHERRY: It'll come.
ROLLIE: I believe in feeling.
SHERRY: It's the only thing.
ROLLIE: I could run on that platform.
SHERRY: You're the most.
ROLLlE: I think I hear something in my head.
SHERRY: You are getting there.
ROLLIE: Should it buzz or hum?
SHERRY: Just let it come.
ROLLlE: I lost it.
SHERRY: I got my own problems.
ROLLlE: I think I ought to do something. Maybe it's happen-
SHERRY: It's a happening.
ROLLIE: Maybe there should
be
a click or something. I believe
there should be a click.
SHERRY: Cool it, baby.
ROLLlE: Why do you keep saying that? I want to hot it.
SHERRY: Stay loose.
Rollie got up, reached over and put his hand on Sherry's breast.
She was wearing a sweater. Sherry looked up at him. "What's your
problem?"
"I always start with the breast," Rollie said.
"Oh, all right."
Rollie put his other hand on the other breast. He stood over
her with two hands on her two breasts. "I may lose my job. I'm up
for tenure," he said.
"Huh?"
"Your breasts are soft and warm. Mushy." She didn't answer.
"I'm dying of a fatal disease," he offered.
"Cancer."
