Her face was chalk-white; the color had drained from her mouth, leaving the lipstick like paint on a corpse. She was rigid with shock. She hardly seemed to hear him, and let him lead her, like a child, to the sofa. Oh, God, why did she have to come in just now?
"Lie down here for a minute, Fran. Here, put your feet up on the arm. Fran, it's all right, I'm all right; take it easy, now. I'll be right back."
He retreated into the bedroom, quietly closed the door behind him, and leaned against it for a moment. His whole body slumped.
The room was quiet, just a third-floor bedroom in an old house, now a converted rooming-house for students, half filled with sunlight. Max heard his own breathing loud in the silence, looked down at his naked body, then at his pants, draped over the bed. He stared at them and closed his eyes. His body grew rigid.
Slowly, the pants began to stir as if with a breeze; but all else was still. Sunlight cut across the stationary dust-motes suspended in mid-air, and the warm summer noon seemed to hold its breath. The pants legs flapped.
Then, suddenly, the room was filled with a timeless density. The silence of the moment before thickened into a tangible, measurable dimension, possessing a reality of its own. He could taste the silence.
He rose three feet into the air, his head clearing the ceiling by inches. As he did so, the tension dissolved from his muscles; he lay loose-flung on the air and watched articles of clothing, first his briefs, then pants, sweatshirt, socks and finally shoes, moving to him and draping themselves over, around, up and onto his body, flowing onto him as if themselves fluid.
