‘I know you perfectly,’ she says.
‘Do you?’
‘Perfectly. Yes.’
He doesn’t answer. He recognizes himself.
‘Poor Phillip, I want to hurt you.’
‘You’re not hurting me,’ he says.
‘Yes. I want to.’
He is watching her in the dark.
‘I want you to remember,’ she says.
He says nothing.
‘Could you ever imagine me not?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Do you think I won’t?’
She shrugs.
There is an interlude. They lie near each other like two sick children, exhausted. The last light has gone.
James Salter, A Sport and a Pastime
Editor
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