After the War
“Each tiny pale green leaf, the delicate petals of each pale pink or peach-colored rose, the white of the dogwood blossoms, barely trembling in the slightest new spring breeze—all perfect, and almost unnoticed, in the general aura of heavy trouble and confusion.Cynthia woke early—early and appalled as she became all at once aware of several things, unrelated, but on the other hand—Oh God! she had dreamed of sex, of sex with Derek, and yes (Jesus!) she had actually come, and now she squirmed in h...umiliation at that memory. (Surely women weren’t supposed to dream like that?) She realized too that she had been crying, and she remembered: Roosevelt. Dead.Sitting up in bed, she shook her head and shoulders as though she could thus dispose of bad thoughts, but still more came. She thought of her father’s death ten years ago, but so terrible, the months of pain, and even then the end of it, his actual dying had seemed sudden.Then she thought of a recent article in the Atlantic or somewhere, by some refugee psychoanalyst, some follower of Dr.MoreLess
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