The Weekend: a Novel
“A juice glass filled with white wine sat on the ledge of the bathroom sink, refracting the evening light. Lyle lay reading on the sofa.
“I might go back into the city tonight,” Tony said.
Lyle put down his book but did not answer.
“Not till late,” said Tony. “On the 9:45. If I go.”
“To see someone?” asked Lyle.
“No,” said Tony.
“Then can I come with you?”
“Don’t you want to stay here?”
“Yes,” said Lyle. “Of course I do. But not if you’re not.”
“Why not?” asked Tony.
“Why are you going back?” asked Lyle.
“I didn’t say I was. I said might.”
“Why might you go back?”
Tony pulled the razor along his throat. He shaved twice a day. He liked how it felt to shave: to scrape away a layer, to rejuvenate himself. He always felt younger after he shaved. “Actually,” he said, “to tell you the truth, I might see someone. It depends if he’s left a message.”
Lyle picked up his book and pretended to read for a moment, but he had lost his ability to follow the text from one line to the next.
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