quietness a condemnation, staring straight into Leahy's eyes, was the woman.
Leahy twitched his finger to ignite the fuel.
He was too late. Montag gasped.
The woman in the door, reaching with contempt toward them all, struck a match against the saturated wood.
People ran out of houses all down the street.
"WHO is it?"
"Who would it be?" said Mr. Montag, leaning back against the closed door in the dark.
His wife said, at last, "Well, put on the light."
"I don't want the light," he said.
"Come to bed."
He heard her roll impatiently; the springs squeaked. "Are you drunk?"
He worked out of his coat and let it slump to the floor. He held his pants out into an abyss and let them fall forever and forever into darkness.
His wife said, "What are you doing?"
He balanced in space with the book in his sweating, icy hand.
A minute later, she said, "Well, don't just stand there in the middle of the room."
He made a small sound.
"What?" she asked.
He made more soft sounds. He stumbled toward the bed and shoved the book clumsily under the cold pillow. He fell into bed and his wife cried out, startled. He lay separate from her. She talked to him for what seemed a long while and when he didn't reply but only made sounds, he felt her hand creep over, up along his chest, his throat, his chin. Her hand brushed his cheek. He knew that she pulled her hand away from his cheek wet.
A long time later when he was finally floating into sleep, he heard her say, "You smell of kerosene."
"I always smell of kerosene," he mumbled.
Late in the night he looked over at Mildred. She was awake. There was a tiny dance of melody in the room. She had her thimble-radio tamped into her ear, listening, listening to far people in far places, her eyes peeled wide at deep ceilings of blackness.
Many nights in the last ten years he had found her with her eyes open, like a dead woman. She would lie that way, blankly, hour upon hour, and then rise and go soundlessly to the bath. You could hear faucet water run, the tinkle of the sedatives bottle, and Mildred gulping hungrily, frantically, at sleep.
She was awake now. In a moment she would rise and go for the barbiturates.
"Mildred," he thought.
And suddenly she was so strange that he couldn't believe that he knew her at all. He was in someone else's house, like those jokes men told about the gentleman, drunk on life, who had come home late at night, unlocked the wrong door, entered a wrong room. And now here Montag lay in the strange night by this unidentified body he had never seen before.
"Millie?" he called.
"What!"
"I didn't mean to startle you. What I want to know is, when did we meet? And where?"
"For what?"
"I mean originally."
She was frowning in the dark.
HE CLARIFIED it. "The first time we ever met, where was it, and when?"
"Why, it was at..." She stopped. "I don't know."
He was frightened. "Can't you remember?"
They both tried.
"It's been so long."
"Only ten years. We're both only thirty!"
"Don't get excited, I'm trying to think." She laughed a strange laugh. "How funny, not to remember where or when you met your husband or wife."
He lay with his eyes tight, pressing, massaging his brow. It was suddenly more important than any other thing in a lifetime that he knew where he had met Mildred.
"It doesn't matter." She was up, in the bathroom now. He heard the water rushing, the swallowing sound.
"No, I guess not," he murmured.
And he wondered, did she take twenty tablets now, like a year ago, when we had to pump her stomach, and me shouting to keep her awake, walking her, asking her why she did it, why she wanted to die, and she saying she didn't know, she didn't know, she didn't know anything about anything!
She didn't belong to him; he didn't belong to her. She didn't know herself, him, or anyone; the world
Leahy twitched his finger to ignite the fuel.
He was too late. Montag gasped.
The woman in the door, reaching with contempt toward them all, struck a match against the saturated wood.
People ran out of houses all down the street.
"WHO is it?"
"Who would it be?" said Mr. Montag, leaning back against the closed door in the dark.
His wife said, at last, "Well, put on the light."
"I don't want the light," he said.
"Come to bed."
He heard her roll impatiently; the springs squeaked. "Are you drunk?"
He worked out of his coat and let it slump to the floor. He held his pants out into an abyss and let them fall forever and forever into darkness.
His wife said, "What are you doing?"
He balanced in space with the book in his sweating, icy hand.
A minute later, she said, "Well, don't just stand there in the middle of the room."
He made a small sound.
"What?" she asked.
He made more soft sounds. He stumbled toward the bed and shoved the book clumsily under the cold pillow. He fell into bed and his wife cried out, startled. He lay separate from her. She talked to him for what seemed a long while and when he didn't reply but only made sounds, he felt her hand creep over, up along his chest, his throat, his chin. Her hand brushed his cheek. He knew that she pulled her hand away from his cheek wet.
A long time later when he was finally floating into sleep, he heard her say, "You smell of kerosene."
"I always smell of kerosene," he mumbled.
Late in the night he looked over at Mildred. She was awake. There was a tiny dance of melody in the room. She had her thimble-radio tamped into her ear, listening, listening to far people in far places, her eyes peeled wide at deep ceilings of blackness.
Many nights in the last ten years he had found her with her eyes open, like a dead woman. She would lie that way, blankly, hour upon hour, and then rise and go soundlessly to the bath. You could hear faucet water run, the tinkle of the sedatives bottle, and Mildred gulping hungrily, frantically, at sleep.
She was awake now. In a moment she would rise and go for the barbiturates.
"Mildred," he thought.
And suddenly she was so strange that he couldn't believe that he knew her at all. He was in someone else's house, like those jokes men told about the gentleman, drunk on life, who had come home late at night, unlocked the wrong door, entered a wrong room. And now here Montag lay in the strange night by this unidentified body he had never seen before.
"Millie?" he called.
"What!"
"I didn't mean to startle you. What I want to know is, when did we meet? And where?"
"For what?"
"I mean originally."
She was frowning in the dark.
HE CLARIFIED it. "The first time we ever met, where was it, and when?"
"Why, it was at..." She stopped. "I don't know."
He was frightened. "Can't you remember?"
They both tried.
"It's been so long."
"Only ten years. We're both only thirty!"
"Don't get excited, I'm trying to think." She laughed a strange laugh. "How funny, not to remember where or when you met your husband or wife."
He lay with his eyes tight, pressing, massaging his brow. It was suddenly more important than any other thing in a lifetime that he knew where he had met Mildred.
"It doesn't matter." She was up, in the bathroom now. He heard the water rushing, the swallowing sound.
"No, I guess not," he murmured.
And he wondered, did she take twenty tablets now, like a year ago, when we had to pump her stomach, and me shouting to keep her awake, walking her, asking her why she did it, why she wanted to die, and she saying she didn't know, she didn't know, she didn't know anything about anything!
She didn't belong to him; he didn't belong to her. She didn't know herself, him, or anyone; the world
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