Читать книгу The Woman in the Window - A. J. Finn - Страница 25

WEAK MORNING LIGHT STRAINS through my bedroom window. I roll over; my hip cracks against my laptop. A late night playing bad chess. My knights stumbled, my rooks crashed.

I drag myself to and from the shower, mop my hair with a towel, skid deodorant under my arms. Fit for fight, as Sally says. Happy Halloween.

I WON’T be answering any doors this evening, of course. David will head out at seven—downtown, I think he said. I bet that’s fun.

He suggested earlier that we leave a bowl of candy on the stoop. “Any kid would take it within a minute, bowl and all,” I told him.

He seemed miffed. “I wasn’t a child psychologist,” he said.

“You don’t need to have been a child psychologist. You just need to have been a child.”

So I’m going to switch off the lights and pretend no one’s home.

I VISIT my film site. Andrew is online; he posted a link to a Pauline Kael essay on Vertigo—“stupid” and “shallow”—and beneath that, he’s making a list: Best noir to hold hands through? (The Third Man. The last shot alone.)

I read the Kael piece, ping him a message. After five minutes, he logs out.

I can’t remember the last time someone held my hand.