the radio is playing, and suddenly you laugh. He says "What?" But how can you explain? How can you tell him you had to laugh because it wasn't funny? How do you explain a hurt too pure, too deep, and that you have to laugh to keep yourself from saying something else.

You're sitting on the green frieze sofa with its shredding cushions and the holes and stains; but now you've known each other all your lives; you sit apart now, like old friends; like old friends leaving; like students graduating; like strangers.

Just past the open window there are children shadows telling dirty jokes. Three boy shadows and a tomboy girl one.

You can see his eyes are closed, as though he doesn't want to look at you. And from the radio a woman's voice is bedroom whispering about FirmForm Brassieres and pantie-girdles. It sounds as though . . .

"Why are we like this?" he asks.

You say "I don't know. I really don't."

And he says "Have you read the books?" "Yes," you say.

"Do you believe in God?"

"I ... I don't know," you say. "Do you?"

"Yes," he says. "I think I do."

Two men are passing on the sidewalk. One says "What if she don't like me?" And the other says "She'll like what you got. She likes it. You take my word. You'll enjoy her. You really will. Believe me."

An old truck rattles by-the grocery truck from old man Jergens' place around the corner, squeaking like it always does.

He stands up. "I've got to go. It's late."

"Do you live close?" you say.

"No. Thanks for the martini."

You laugh again, and he says "What?" again, and you say "You're welcome." He starts to go.

"You get up this way often?" you ask quickly.

"Sometimes," he says. "I came to see my sister. She wasn't home. Look, I'll see you, huh?"

"Right," you say, and help him pull the door-it always sticks. He pats your arm. "Thanks for the martini.

Another day, and again another, and the bumping people gallop up the subway stairs onto the sidewalks, and you pass up out from the cool tiled underground into another evening. All along the sidewalk by the park are concrete benches and dogs and old men and baby carriages and ice cream pushcarts and tight indecent Levis and tight indecent dresses. And past the subway entrance the stone is painted grey and reaches up from the sidewalk to the first dirty window ledge, then edges out into a narrow shelf which runs unceasingly at the same useless height as far as you can see. The paint is thick and lumpy and the grey color has a liquid shine.

You watch the traffic light and then hurry toward the wall; you try to slow yourself, looking casual, as you go through the gate and almost run along the path beside the rocks that look like battleships. The kids are still there, playing with their little boats. The bench is empty.

Now, on certain evenings you remember, when the sky glows with that haunting yellow-when sounds are muted and seem far away. You need not even close your eyes . .

15