orchard in three turns and out
across the ditch and onto the
icy road behind the inn.
Knocking your bindings loose,
kicking the skis free and
leaning them up against the
wooden wall of the inn, the
lamplight coming from the
window, where inside, in the
smoky, new-wine smelling
warmth, they were playing the
accordion.
"If you have to go away," she
said, "is it absolutely necessary
to kill off everything you leave
behind? I mean do you have to
take away everything? Do you
have to kill your horse, and
your wife and burn your saddle
and your armour?"
"Where did we stay in Paris?"
he asked the woman who was
sitting by him in a canvas
chair, now, in Africa.
"Don't."
"At the Crillon. You know
that."
"Why do I know that?"
"That's where we always
stayed."
"No. Not always."
"There and at the Pavillion
Henri-Quatre in St. Germain.
You said you loved it there."
"Love is a dunghill," said
Harry. "And I'm the cock that
gets on it to crow."
"Yes," he said. "Your damned
money was my armour. My
Sword and my Armour."
"All right. I'll stop that. I don't
want to hurt you.'
"It's a little bit late now."
"All right then. I'll go on
hurting you. It's more amusing.
The only thing I ever really
liked to do with you I can't do
now."
"No, that's not true. You liked
to do many things and
everything you wanted to do I
did."
"Oh, for Christ sake stop
bragging, will you?"
JOY FEELINGS | DECEMBER ISSUE
257