Carol leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.
“God,” he said, “I wish you’d try.” He bent forward again, making no attempt to restrain his sorrowful desire.
Martin jumped up, a kind of dull horror building into rage. He took Carol roughly by the shoulders.
“God damn you! What’s wrong with you? What the hell’s wrong with all of you? Don’t you like the feel of a woman’s breast? Don’t you like a mouth that’s soft and sweet, instead of a god-damned beard?” He noticed that he was shaking Carol and stopped. He moved back a pace, his face shaded, the perspiration pouring from his brow in streams. “Do you think it’s smart to be this way? Do you think it’s clever?” He closed his fists. “Give me Eve, god damn you! Give me Eve, and take your Adam!”
Carol was weeping softly.
“God,” he said. “I don’t think it’s smart.... Oh, Martin, I’m so lonely. I can’t help how I feel.... Don’t be mad.... I won’t do anything.... Please—” He was rocking back and forth in his helpless grief.
Martin sat down again. His face, which had hardened in the previous moment, lost its straight lines and the color came back to his cheeks. He ran his hand, which was trembling slightly, across his eyes. He sat very straight and stiff.
“I’m sorry, Carol,” he declared sincerely. “I lost my head. I understand.”
But Carol cried out, his palms against his temples, “You understand? You? You don’t understand at all.... The days! The long, wet days!—I can’t stand them alone again!... You don’t know how I was born. How I was raised. My mother died when I was born—Oh! I’d have loved her.... My father took me to a mining camp. There weren’t any women. Even the cook was a man. They played with me, and gave me money.... After my father died, there were more men.... It’s my first thought, and my last.... I wish you did understand. Then you’d just have to love me.”