a cold crayon drawn up her spine

The next time she was in the store the American was there, the New Yorker, with that voice. When he spoke it was like all of new york had died and been buried in his voice.

that girl at the gym, that Eve, her knowledge appled forth in wry remarks about his fitness.


===

Preceding scene to terrible sadness:

general store or mini supermarket. Man cat food (?) jellysnakes? Short. Offered coins. All this direct speech. Then: He heard her voice. He looked at her. He told her to eat shit. [END sec - back to house alone, sadness]

all hell

away from the sand
in a room rife with light


he said
he would write from life.

He watched the tragic blooming of the frail umbrella.
Beneath, her face appeared in a blank daub when she turned.
She said nothing.
His heart beat.
He missed the jagged little sallies of her imagination.
He watched her quiet lips for a hint of motion but saw only hesitation.
She did not smile, and his own smile was gone. Sunk.
"Delilah," he said, his breath visibly hanging between them. for a space.
"You—" she started, but didn't finish. Characteristically. But he had seen it when her lips moved—the pearl gleam of her teeth, the suggestion of wetness and breath. On his naked neck and hands the faint rain was cold. Pricked specks, precise.
Her umbrella was patterned with flowers, pastels—lavenders like early dawn or dusk. It was an old woman's umbrella, through which the winter glare lit her youth strangely.