“Of course it might have been the clanking in my head, but I didn’t think so; I wasn’t hissing and spitting. It was nice in that cocoon of warmed sheets and wool blankets. For the second time since I arrived in Coburn, I debated the wisdom of staying there for the rest of my life. I could pay Sam Livingston to bring me bologna sandwiches and take away the bedpan. What I had to do that day offered no hope of jollity. Maybe it’s a sign of age (maturity?) when the future holds less than the past. I... turned to look at the other pillow, still bearing the dent of Millie Goodfellow’s architectural hairdo. I leaned across to sniff. It still smelled of her scent but, faded, it didn’t seem as awful as it had the night before. Now it seemed warm, fragrant, and very, very intimate. I kissed the pillow like a demented poet. We had dressed shortly before what laughingly passes for dawn in Coburn, N.Y., and I had escorted Millie down to her car in the parking lot. An affecting parting. We clung to each other and said sappy things.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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