"Too dirty?"

"Maybe Ill let you read one sometime."

"Whiskey and apples go together. Fix me a drink, darling. Then you can read me astory yourself."

Very few authors, especially the unpublished, can resist an invitation to readaloud. I made us both a drink and, settling in a chair opposite, began to read to her,my voice a little shaky with a combination of stage fright and enthusiasm: it was anew story, Id finished it the day before, and that inevitable sense of shortcominghad not had time to develop. It was about two women who share a house,schoolteachers, one of whom, when the other becomes engaged, spreads withanonymous notes a scandal that prevents the marriage. As I read, each glimpse Istole of Holly made my heart contract. She fidgeted. She picked apart the butts in anashtray, she mooned over her fingernails, as though longing for a file; worse, when Idid seem to have her interest, there was actually a telltale frost over her eyes, as ifshe were wondering whether to buy a pair of shoes shed seen in some window.

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