you get it through your head that I don’t want you? I want this to be over once and for all, Linda. I wish you’d just get the hell away and leave me alone.”
“Please, Don—”
“Get the hell away from me,” he said, his voice low and angry. “If you’re so hard up go back to your dorm and find yourself a candle.”
She went back to her dorm, but not to find a candle. She went back, walking blindly and not looking where she was going. Don didn’t want her, not at all, not even for one last bounce in a bed, and she knew now that the world had definitely ended, that there was nothing left for her, nothing at all.
She undressed before her mirror, taking a long slow look at herself, studying her firm breasts and flat stomach, handling herself all over to assure herself that it was a good body, a desirable body, a body that men would want to make love to. Her hands cupped her breasts and held them like burnt offerings to the image in the mirror, and she studied her reflection and wished that the hands that held her breasts were Don’s hands instead of her own, that Don’s eyes instead of her own eyes were busy studying the curves and contours of her body.
She didn’t want to go to sleep that night. But she didn’t want anything else, either.
She knocked herself cold with four sleeping pills and slept through all her classes the next morning.
Joe Gunsway called her the next day. She went to the phone convinced that the call was from Don even though she knew he would never call her, went to the phone on the run and grabbed the receiver and held it to her ear, saying Hello right away and praying that Don’s voice would come to her over the wire.
But the voice was Joe’s.
“I wanted to get in touch with you,” he said. “I … heard that you and Don broke up.”
“That’s right,” she said, amazed how calm she sounded to herself. “We broke up.”
“I … well, I wondered if I could see you this evening.”
At first she didn’t answer and he repeated what he had said, thinking that she hadn’t understood him. But she had understood him, all right.
And she couldn’t think of anything she wanted to do less than go out with Joe Gunsway.
“No,” she said. That was all—just the one word. She wasn’t in the mood to go into details.
“Linda—”
He stopped. She waited for him to go on.
“Linda, why not?”
A logical question, she thought. It deserved an equally logical answer.
So she said: “I don’t want to see you.”
“But why?”
Because you’re too good for me , she wanted to say. Because I’m Don Gibbs’ cast-off whore and nothing more than that. Because I’m a lousy little tramp and you’re a nice square guy and you can do better than me.
But she didn’t say that. Instead she said: “I just don’t, Joe. Please don’t call me any more.”
And she put the receiver back on the hook. He called again, of course, as she must have known he would. This time she didn’t talk to him at all. As soon as she knew that it was him again on the phone she replaced the receiver and broke the connection again.
He didn’t call any more after that.
For the next week she didn’t do anything.
It is not easy to do nothing at all. As a matter of fact, it takes either a great deal of concentration or a great deal of lack of interest in the world. Linda didn’t have a great deal of concentration—concentration in general was too much for her just then. But she possessed an enormous capacity for lacking interest in the world.
Nothing mattered any more. It was as simple as that.
There were quite a few things she did not do. She did not go to classes. She did not open a book. She did not even read the Record when Don deposited a stack of copies on the table in the caf Friday night.
She ate, but only when she was starving and then only enough to keep her alive. She slept, but only when she was so exhausted that she couldn’t stay awake any more. She woke up, but only when she had
“Please, Don—”
“Get the hell away from me,” he said, his voice low and angry. “If you’re so hard up go back to your dorm and find yourself a candle.”
She went back to her dorm, but not to find a candle. She went back, walking blindly and not looking where she was going. Don didn’t want her, not at all, not even for one last bounce in a bed, and she knew now that the world had definitely ended, that there was nothing left for her, nothing at all.
She undressed before her mirror, taking a long slow look at herself, studying her firm breasts and flat stomach, handling herself all over to assure herself that it was a good body, a desirable body, a body that men would want to make love to. Her hands cupped her breasts and held them like burnt offerings to the image in the mirror, and she studied her reflection and wished that the hands that held her breasts were Don’s hands instead of her own, that Don’s eyes instead of her own eyes were busy studying the curves and contours of her body.
She didn’t want to go to sleep that night. But she didn’t want anything else, either.
She knocked herself cold with four sleeping pills and slept through all her classes the next morning.
Joe Gunsway called her the next day. She went to the phone convinced that the call was from Don even though she knew he would never call her, went to the phone on the run and grabbed the receiver and held it to her ear, saying Hello right away and praying that Don’s voice would come to her over the wire.
But the voice was Joe’s.
“I wanted to get in touch with you,” he said. “I … heard that you and Don broke up.”
“That’s right,” she said, amazed how calm she sounded to herself. “We broke up.”
“I … well, I wondered if I could see you this evening.”
At first she didn’t answer and he repeated what he had said, thinking that she hadn’t understood him. But she had understood him, all right.
And she couldn’t think of anything she wanted to do less than go out with Joe Gunsway.
“No,” she said. That was all—just the one word. She wasn’t in the mood to go into details.
“Linda—”
He stopped. She waited for him to go on.
“Linda, why not?”
A logical question, she thought. It deserved an equally logical answer.
So she said: “I don’t want to see you.”
“But why?”
Because you’re too good for me , she wanted to say. Because I’m Don Gibbs’ cast-off whore and nothing more than that. Because I’m a lousy little tramp and you’re a nice square guy and you can do better than me.
But she didn’t say that. Instead she said: “I just don’t, Joe. Please don’t call me any more.”
And she put the receiver back on the hook. He called again, of course, as she must have known he would. This time she didn’t talk to him at all. As soon as she knew that it was him again on the phone she replaced the receiver and broke the connection again.
He didn’t call any more after that.
For the next week she didn’t do anything.
It is not easy to do nothing at all. As a matter of fact, it takes either a great deal of concentration or a great deal of lack of interest in the world. Linda didn’t have a great deal of concentration—concentration in general was too much for her just then. But she possessed an enormous capacity for lacking interest in the world.
Nothing mattered any more. It was as simple as that.
There were quite a few things she did not do. She did not go to classes. She did not open a book. She did not even read the Record when Don deposited a stack of copies on the table in the caf Friday night.
She ate, but only when she was starving and then only enough to keep her alive. She slept, but only when she was so exhausted that she couldn’t stay awake any more. She woke up, but only when she had
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