He listened like a man in the hands of the Gestapo trying to see if, perhaps, keeping quiet and not moving a muscle will help the pain.
When I wound it up, my compassion was coming back:
"I'm sick of it, Paul! Dave's sweating over you when he already has plenty to keep him busy. We've chased around for you the whole damned weekend—both of us with other things to do, and troubles of our own. Why? We think a lot of you. Because you're having the rough end of the rough time, we are, too. You were shot from worrying about the state of the world. A damned good-looking babe moved in on you and made it twice as rough. And you don't understand yourself. But the time has come to shut the book, Paul. The chapter's finished. There's no epilogue. It isn't one of my stories, boy. No happy ending. You couldn't get her back if you were the chief of police. You could get her back if you were Midas—and that way you wouldn't want her. She got a big throb out of you. She was as honest as she's able to be—for a time. Her mother instinct kept her going awhile. But she was soon laying the boys in the back room even though she was doing your cooking, nights. She offered me a deal—and if that doesn't cure you, son—" I racked the brain for a conclusion—"well, go on up and buy a hunk."
He didn't say anything.
I suppose he sat for five minutes.
His face was just—sweaty, like everybody's—and gray, and apparently relaxed.
When he walked over to the window, I thought I'd won, and my nerves gave an inch or two—so I could go on living a little while longer, myself.
But he leaned way down, lifted his long, slatty leg, stepped out on the terrace, and hopped up on the parapet. Sixteen stories of straight wall.
I went after the God-damned fool.
He turned around and sat there.