It was a long time before X could set the note aside, let alone lift Esme’s father’s wristwatch out of the box. When he did finally lift it out, he saw that its crystal had been broken in transit. He wondered if the watch was otherwise undamaged, but he hadn’t the courage to wind it and find out. He just sat with it in his hand for another long period. Then, suddenly, almost ecstatically, he felt sleepy.
You take a really sleepy man, Esme, and he always stands a chance of again becoming a man with all his fac-with all his f-a-c-u-l-t-i-e-s intact.
Pretty Mouth and Green My Eyes
WHEN the phone rang, the gray-haired man asked the girl, with quite some little deference, if she would rather for any reason he didn’t answer it. The girl heard him as if from a distance, and turned her face toward him, one eye—on the side of the light—closed tight, her open eye very, however disingenuously, large, and so blue as to appear almost violet. The grayhaired man asked her to hurry up, and she raised up on her right forearm just quickly enough so that the movement didn’t quite look perfunctory. She cleared her hair back from her forehead with her left hand and said, “God. I don’t know. I mean what do you think?” The gray-haired man said he didn’t see that it made a helluva lot of difference one way or the other, and slipped his left hand under the girl’s supporting arm, above the elbow, working his fingers up, making room for them between the warm surfaces of her upper arm and chest wall. He reached for the phone with his right hand. To reach it without groping, he had to raise himself somewhat higher, which caused the back of his head to graze a comer of the lampshade. In that instant, the light was particularly, if rather vividly, flattering to his gray, mostly white, hair. Though in disarrangement at that moment, it had obviously been freshly cut—or, rather, freshly maintained. The neckline and temples had been trimmed conventionally close, but the sides and top had been left rather more than just longish, and were, in fact, a trifle “distinguished-looking.” “Hello?” he said resonantly into the phone. The girl stayed propped up on her forearm and watched him. Her eyes, more just open than alert or speculative, reflected chiefly their own size and color.
A man’s voice—stone dead, yet somehow rudely, almost obscenely quickened for the occasion—came through at the other end: “Lee? I wake you?”
The gray-haired man glanced briefly left, at the girl. “Who’s that?” he asked. “Arthur?”
“Yeah—I wake you?”
“No, no. I’m in bed, reading. Anything wrong?”
“You sure I didn’t wake you? Honest to God?”
“No, no—absolutely,” the gray-haired man said. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been averaging about four lousy hours—”