The Unforgiving Minute Read Online Free PDF Page A

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    to her ankles. Except for a slight tremor of surprise, she made
    no move. I dropped my terrycloth robe to the floor and slid into
    her wetness as she moaned and panted in ever-increasing volume.
    I ran my hands over her classic back and buttocks, thinking to
    myself that no piece of sculpture had surpassed this perfect
    body. We came together in a cacophony of sounds that was surely
    heard in the next room, if not in the next hotel. She turned
    toward me and we kissed for a long time as I unfastened her bra.
    We walked to the bed with our arms around each other and fell to
    the mattress entwined together. As we lay there, drifting into
    sleep, I made a mental note that this girl could be big trouble.
    I might have been half joking to myself at the time, but I was so
    right.
    ***
    My first night in Paris consisted of a good night’s sleep.
    By the time I arrived I was quite exhausted and the hour was
    late. I bathed in one of those marvelous European bathtubs in
    which an average-size male can steep his entire body without the
    chest or knees sticking out. In America we seem to live in
    mortal fear of bathtubs overflowing and flooding the bathroom.
    Consequently, our tubs are equipped with a device called an
    overflow drain which constantly keeps the water depth at about
    six inches. European rooms usually have a drain in the floor for
    easier cleaning of the bathroom and to turn bathtub overflows
    into non-crises. If per-chance you should feel yourself getting
    dizzy and about to sink into the water, there is usually an
    emergency cord which ostensibly sends an alarm somewhere. I have
    always had an urge to test it, but have never had the guts or,
    thank God, the occasion. I caught up on a good deal of my
    reading that night and stayed in the tub, adding hot water until
    I felt drowsiness overwhelming me. I slid luxuriously into the
    canopied Louis Quatorze bed and drifted into a deep and dreamless
    sleep. I awoke at nine o’clock the next morning feeling
    wonderfully rested and ravenously hungry. I shaved, showered,
    and dressed in a navy blue blazer, grey slacks, and light-weight
    summer shirt with striped tie. It was a beautiful summer morning
    and I took a table on the patio, which is a glorious place to
    dine in the summer. I picked up a copy of the Herald-Tribune at
    the front desk and settled down for a leisurely breakfast. I
    ordered a full breakfast, complete with fresh-squeezed orange
    juice, two fried eggs, sausages, and fresh croissants with gobs
    of butter. I drank steaming hot caf´e au lait and ate slowly and
    leisurely with great satisfaction. It came to my mind that this
    was a fitting breakfast to be eating in a French hotel named
    after a British monarch. It felt strange to have no place to go.
    I couldn’t remember a breakfast in years that was not followed by
    something that was pre-planned, whether it be work, play, or even
    a love affair. I absorbed every word of the newspaper and even
    did the crossword puzzle. My fourth cup of strong French coffee
    had me in a totally caffeinated state and my head felt clear and
    slightly high. I left the patio dining room and returned to my
    room to freshen up before setting out on what was really the
    first day of the grand odyssey of Robert Boyd.
    I left the hotel and headed right on the Avenue George
    Cinq toward the Seine. I spotted the Crazy Horse Saloon on my
    left and made a mental note to spend an evening there. Paris was
    at her best. The temperature was about eighty degrees and a soft
    breeze was blowing off the river. I strolled leisurely along the
    right bank, drinking in Paris. Suddenly, I missed my family
    again. I looked at my watch and it was eleven in the morning,
    which meant it was five o’clock in New York. I decided to
    evaluate the possibility of calling home at a decent hour. I let
    my mind wander to other aspects of my life and thought of Laura
    again. I know that the trauma of breaking off our relationship
    had a lot to do with where