her eating. Fortunately, Hector Scott knew better than to chide her about it, and in any case he had long been attracted to women of a certain heft, herself included.
She trudged up to her bedroom and opened the curtains. Invariably Hector closed them, and just as invariably she opened them again, because she liked the way the streetlight at the end of the block made circles in the mist—circles that were like little moons of luminosity. Hector, whose circulation was now so impaired that he had taken to sleeping in socks, gloves, and a nightcap, was snoring away. She preferred to ignore the socks and the gloves, but it was hard to ignore the nightcap, which made him look far too much like a character out of Dickens—Ebenezer Scrooge or Silas Marner or someone.
Aurora washed her face, got into her gown, and crawled into bed. She didn’t feel sleepy; she felt empty, absent, idling—as if she had strayed into an area of life that she had not really been able to make her own. Often she read most of the night, mysteries and one thing or another. She had been making a late assault on Proust, but when she felt so absent she could rarely quite focus on Proust. Occasionally she might amuse herself with an old staple—movie magazines—but lately movie magazines hadn’t been working quite as well as they once had. The stars now seemed ridiculously young, their antics and the romantic complications they got themselves into seemed adolescent in a way that had ceased to be appealing. Even their beauty had ceased to be appealing; she didn’t know why, exactly. Perhaps it was becausephysical beauty was never likely to make an appearance in her life again—it was vaguely annoying that there seemed to be an endless supply of it running around Hollywood and behaving badly.
When she slipped into bed, Hector’s body immediately edged over toward hers, as if in tropic response to her size and her warmth. His body did that every night. Aurora sat up in bed, looking out at the streetlight and the little moon it had created around itself. She felt Hector’s hand fumbling for her hand. Every night he fumbled for her hand. Aurora removed his glove and flung it on the floor before allowing him to take her hand, at which point, to her annoyance, he woke up.
“What happened to my glove?” he asked.
“I took it off, Hector,” Aurora said. “I don’t feel like holding hands with a glove, if you don’t mind.”
“Yes, but you don’t like it when my hands get cold, either,” the General said. “I’m caught either way I go.”
“You’re no more caught than I am, you know,” Aurora said. “Either I’m holding hands with a glove or I’m being fondled by an icy claw. It’s very disappointing that this is how life ends.”
“Ends?” the General said. “That’s nonsense. Your life isn’t ending. My life is a lot closer to ending than your life is. I’ll be lucky if I last five years, and I imagine you’ll last at least twenty.”
“Those are just numbers,” Aurora said. “In other respects this is how life ends, and I have every right to be disappointed, if not indignant.”
“Did anything happen with the Frenchman?” the General inquired. He noted sadly that Aurora seemed subdued. Difficult as she was when she wasn’t subdued, he still hated to see her subdued, and it seemed to be happening more often. It was not uncommon for them both to find themselves awake in the middle of the night feeling subdued. In the General’s thinking, it was all because of sex, too. If he hadn’t petered out, no pun intended, they would have something to do in the middle of the night if they both happened to be awake.It might not be all that it had been, but would probably have been enough to keep them from feeling so subdued.
“Well, he came and ate and made a fool of himself,” Aurora said. “Anything is a rather vast category, Hector. If you mean did I manage to stumble through the amenities, yes. On the other hand, if you
She trudged up to her bedroom and opened the curtains. Invariably Hector closed them, and just as invariably she opened them again, because she liked the way the streetlight at the end of the block made circles in the mist—circles that were like little moons of luminosity. Hector, whose circulation was now so impaired that he had taken to sleeping in socks, gloves, and a nightcap, was snoring away. She preferred to ignore the socks and the gloves, but it was hard to ignore the nightcap, which made him look far too much like a character out of Dickens—Ebenezer Scrooge or Silas Marner or someone.
Aurora washed her face, got into her gown, and crawled into bed. She didn’t feel sleepy; she felt empty, absent, idling—as if she had strayed into an area of life that she had not really been able to make her own. Often she read most of the night, mysteries and one thing or another. She had been making a late assault on Proust, but when she felt so absent she could rarely quite focus on Proust. Occasionally she might amuse herself with an old staple—movie magazines—but lately movie magazines hadn’t been working quite as well as they once had. The stars now seemed ridiculously young, their antics and the romantic complications they got themselves into seemed adolescent in a way that had ceased to be appealing. Even their beauty had ceased to be appealing; she didn’t know why, exactly. Perhaps it was becausephysical beauty was never likely to make an appearance in her life again—it was vaguely annoying that there seemed to be an endless supply of it running around Hollywood and behaving badly.
When she slipped into bed, Hector’s body immediately edged over toward hers, as if in tropic response to her size and her warmth. His body did that every night. Aurora sat up in bed, looking out at the streetlight and the little moon it had created around itself. She felt Hector’s hand fumbling for her hand. Every night he fumbled for her hand. Aurora removed his glove and flung it on the floor before allowing him to take her hand, at which point, to her annoyance, he woke up.
“What happened to my glove?” he asked.
“I took it off, Hector,” Aurora said. “I don’t feel like holding hands with a glove, if you don’t mind.”
“Yes, but you don’t like it when my hands get cold, either,” the General said. “I’m caught either way I go.”
“You’re no more caught than I am, you know,” Aurora said. “Either I’m holding hands with a glove or I’m being fondled by an icy claw. It’s very disappointing that this is how life ends.”
“Ends?” the General said. “That’s nonsense. Your life isn’t ending. My life is a lot closer to ending than your life is. I’ll be lucky if I last five years, and I imagine you’ll last at least twenty.”
“Those are just numbers,” Aurora said. “In other respects this is how life ends, and I have every right to be disappointed, if not indignant.”
“Did anything happen with the Frenchman?” the General inquired. He noted sadly that Aurora seemed subdued. Difficult as she was when she wasn’t subdued, he still hated to see her subdued, and it seemed to be happening more often. It was not uncommon for them both to find themselves awake in the middle of the night feeling subdued. In the General’s thinking, it was all because of sex, too. If he hadn’t petered out, no pun intended, they would have something to do in the middle of the night if they both happened to be awake.It might not be all that it had been, but would probably have been enough to keep them from feeling so subdued.
“Well, he came and ate and made a fool of himself,” Aurora said. “Anything is a rather vast category, Hector. If you mean did I manage to stumble through the amenities, yes. On the other hand, if you
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