One More for the Road Read Online Free PDF Page B

old wreck of a train like this, making such a racket on the track, is like being a kind of traveler, I mean in time, we’re going back, not ahead.”
    â€œI never thought that,” he said, trying to crane around so he could see her clearly, but her head was pretty well turned to the window, which seemed like a TV window with stations coming and going, unfocused, channels changing every second. He looked down at his white-gloved hands. “Never thought.”
    â€œWell, think it,” she murmured.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThink it,” she said, more clearly.
    â€œAnd another thing,” she said, just as quietly, watching the passing night TV stations on their own quick circuits, come and gone. “This isn’t only a time-and-place means of transportation. I feel something else.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œFeel like I’m sort of melting away, I don’t know, kind of losing weight, the more we move, the further we go, I feel lighter, down some pounds and then more, isn’t that strange. You feel that?”
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    â€œGo ahead, feel it, take your time. Relax. Doesn’t it sort of just come up out of your feet, your ankles, get to your knees, so you feel, I don’t know, let loose? You kind of hang inside your clothes.”
    He puzzled for a long moment, tried to look over her shoulder again, but all he saw in the colorless window glass was the silhouette, a face with no visible features.
    â€œGo ahead,” she murmured. “Relax. Let yourself go. Take it easy. Well?”
    â€œI sort of feel it.” He sat back, head down, examining his knees and the shirt cuffs half shot out of his coat sleeves.
    â€œDon’t talk about it, just, nice and easy, do it,” she said, not turning.
    â€œYeah,” he said, turning his gloved hands over and then back down on his knees, massaging. “Almost.”
    â€œDon’t lie.”
    â€œNo, no,” he insisted quickly. “Why would I lie?”
    â€œMen always do. They’re good at it. Put in a lifetime at it. Get good by now.”
    â€œNo, no,” he said. “I feel it.”
    â€œGood boy,” she said. “Keep quiet now and feel it more. There. There. You see?”
    He nodded rather than reply. The big red car trolley train rocketed out of one small area of houses and buildings into and through an open field and then a few more nurseries, and then empty land moving toward yet another small community near the sea.
    â€œYou’re pretty good,” he said admiringly.
    â€œShh,” she hissed.
    â€œNo, but I mean,” he whispered, “you’d be the life of the party, telling people things, giving them ideas, half putting them to sleep, saying ‘do this,’ ‘do that,’ and they do it. I’m losing weight, like you said.”
    â€œGood,” she said. “Shh.”
    He glanced around uneasily at all the night celebrants, swaying in the motion of the train, traveling a long way in a short distance.
    â€œYou ever notice,” he tried, “every single person, every one, every woman, every man this evening is wearing white gloves. You, me, everyone.”
    â€œI wonder why?” she said, turned away.
    â€œYou got me.”
    The train plummeted on into gathering mist and then wisps of fog, and he sat rocking back and forth with the sway of the big wooden-floored car and looked at the back of her neck where the tender dark curls gathered and at last said: “Your name. Out on the dance floor, you said, but the band played so loud—”
    Her lips moved.
    â€œBeg pardon?” he said.
    Her lips moved again and then a final time.
    â€œHere we are,” she said.
    â€œMy name, now,” he said, “is—”
    â€œHere we are,” she said, and brushed past him and was half up the aisle to the door before he sensed she was gone and the train was slowing. He saw a few lights