Norman Rush - Whites

The house was filling up with insects. Frank shrugged. He said, “Goodnight, then.”

Everything was too much. He watched Christie go. He wanted to see him back where he belonged.

A draft stirred Frank’s bathrobe: out of the folds the condom dropped, like a fallen blossom. It could have happened at any time in the last ten minutes. He stepped on the thing. He felt numb.

Frank went through the house and tested the locks on the doors and windows. It was a way of decelerating. He had to decelerate.

He went into the living room to watch Christie’s house go dark again.

He went into the bathroom, where he took off his bathrobe and reburied it in the hamper. It was a rag and it smelled. He was ashamed. He would lie down and get up later for a shower.

He lay down on the bed. He felt his pulse slowing. Tears came to his eyes for a while. He was near sleep.

There was a scraping sound at the window above him, the sound of nails on the flyscreen. He recognized it. He sat up straight. She was back.

She was back.