Taxi to Paris by Ruth Gogoll

understand. Those humiliations, this contempt - and for how long had she put up with it? Actually, it didn't make much difference. I wouldn't have wanted to take it once - and I probably couldn't. That's where her hardness and indifference came from. Now she was so closed off again, she felt like a stone fortress.
    And it was their fault! Anger flooded me with such furor, I almost vomited. Then I felt a sudden coldness inside. No, it wasn't their fault - it was my fault. I'd asked her to talk about it. Now I was no better than the others. Just the opposite. I was the worst one of all: she'd trusted me, at least to a degree. I could at least have done my best not to cause her more pain. But now it was too late. There was nothing left for me to do but leave. I couldn't help her; I was only making things worse by staying. The noose around my neck pulled itself tighter. I swallowed hard. I felt paralyzed.
    She stood there - an icy mountain of contempt. I was afraid to leave her alone. But I had to. I was only going to keep reminding her of all the pain and insults. I forced myself to make a decision.
    "I have to go now," I said. I tried to look at her. She stared blankly into space. I couldn't move her to say goodbye, nor could I say anything to her myself. I turned around and headed for the door, hesitantly putting one foot before the other. Finally, I got there. I laid a hand on the doorknob. She still didn't say anything. I opened the door and turned around. She still stood there, completely lifeless and stiff. She didn't look at me. I closed the door behind me.

Chapter 9
    T he next few days were like a preview of the fires of hell.
    I went to work, came home from work, slept, went to work...
    Sleep wasn't really the right word for this restless tossing and turning, nor could one really say these were nights to remember. After a week of this, I looked like a ghost. My colleagues sent me home with good intentions, under the assumption that I would find rest there. This made it even worse. Now I didn't even have those few hours a day during which I could throw myself into a routine and forget her.
    I started walking through the city, looking in shop windows, though I couldn't have said what was in any of them. I visited cafes full of old women stuffing themselves with cream pastries.
    On the third day, I saw her. It gave me quite a shock. She was crossing the street - I only saw her back - but I recognized her immediately. That wasn't exactly a great feat, given her unusual height.
    After she crossed the street, she walked along the main strip of the pedestrian zone's shopping area. I leapt up and threw the money for my coffee on the table. From the corner of my eye, I saw my waitress jump in confusion as I dashed out of the cafe like an elite sprinter. Perhaps I did still have a shot at the Olympics...
    By the time I got to the pedestrian zone, I couldn't see her anymore. I sprinted some more. My lungs burned. The street forked. I raced off to the right. She wasn't there. I ran back and took the other path. I caught a glimpse of her at the end of the block, entering a supermarket. Of course she wouldn't shop at little mom-and-pop stores - those were much to personal. A supermarket provided the anonymity she required.
    I was about to slow down when I realized that the supermarket had two exits. I begged the pardon of my aching lungs and sprinted off down the block. When I got to the market, I tried to decide what she would be likely to shop for. She had admitted herself that she didn't cook, so I could forget the produce as well as the usual "housewife" areas. Slowly, I began to breathe normally again. I wandered hesitantly through the aisles.
    The deli section! I walked more quickly again. I turned the corner and looked around. There she was. She was putting two bottles of champagne in a cart. Those were for her clients, I assumed for no particular reason. Perhaps because she'd never offered me any. I followed her. She picked