Read One More for the Road for Free Online

outside, and the door hissed open before he could precede her and help her down into the dark. But at last he stood beside her as the great night train pulled away with a bell and horn and he looked to see her standing motionless, looking up at the sky.
    â€œWe’d better not stand here in the middle of the street,” he said. “Traffic.”
    â€œThere are no cars,” she responded, calmly, and began to walk.
    She was half across the street before he caught up.
    â€œI was just saying,” he said.
    â€œA night with no moon, that makes me glad. There’s true romance for you. A night with no moon.”
    â€œI thought moons and moonlight were—”
    But she cut him off. “No moon, no light. The best.”
    And she was up over the curb and along the walk and turning in at her place, which was upstairs, one fourth of a fourplex.
    â€œQuiet as a mouse,” she murmured.
    â€œYes!”
    â€œKeep your voice down.”
    â€œYes,” he whispered, and they were inside at the staircase and he saw that she was removing her shoes and glancing at him, so he did the same. She moved up to the first tread, soundless, and looked to see he was carrying her shoes, nodded and repeated, “Like mice.”
    And she ascended in a soundless glide with him fumbling after. When he got to the top she was already in her apartment, a large parlor with a double bed in its middle, and beyond, a small dining room and a kitchen. The door closed on the bathroom, soundless.
    After a moment she called out, very quietly, “Don’t stand there,” which he interpreted as meaning off with the tuxedo coat and after some hesitation the white shirtfront and collar and after another long while, unlatching his suspenders and folding them and his pants over a chair that he found in the shadowed room, lit only by a small nightlight and a lamp on the far side of the bed. Standing there in a half shirt and his black socks and underwear, he wavered and dodged about going in one direction, then the other, moving toward the bed and backing away, with no map, no guide, no late-night instructions.
    â€œAre you where you’re supposed to be?” she asked quietly behind the door. He gazed at the bed.
    â€œAre you?” she prompted, almost inaudibly.
    He went to the bed and said, “I think so,” and got in and one of the wire springs sang softly.
    â€œYou are,” she said.
    The bathroom door opened. A tall silhouette was there. Before he could see her clearly, the light went out and a shadow crossed the room.
    â€œEyes shut?”
    He nodded, numbly. He felt her weight upon the bed and heard the sheets part and whisper as she drifted in.
    â€œOpen your eyes.”
    He opened them but it was the same as on the train, where, turned away, he saw only a silhouette cutout, and here, though she faced toward him, she blocked the lamp so the lamp made her a hillock of shadow with no features. He tried to find her face, he knew it was there, but his eyes wouldn’t focus.
    â€œGood evening,” she said.
    â€œEvening.”
    And after a moment as she gained her breath and he did the same, she said, “My, that was a long trip.”
    â€œToo long. I could hardly wait—”
    â€œDon’t say,” she said.
    He looked at the long shadow and the pale face with dim outlines of features.
    â€œBut …”
    â€œDon’t say,” she said.
    He held his breath for he knew she would go on in a moment. She did.
    â€œTeachers say if you write a story you must never name what you’re trying to write. Just do it. When it’s over you’ll know what you’ve done. So … don’t say.”
    It was the most she had said all evening. Now she fell silent, a shadow against the light. And now the lamp went dark without, it seemed, her turning to touch it. He saw the merest gesture in the shadows. Something soft fell to the floor. It was a moment before