The sound she made might have been a laugh. "So am I.”

I had to go on. "Marty feels the same way about these things that I do. Futile nights that become futile years, and pretty soon you start to notice that you're getting old, and you have nothing inside you to show for it; nothing to hold for your hunger but all the moments that won't last, and no place that you belong. I'm twenty-four now; I can do something about it. Some day-maybe some day soon-it would be too late, and it wouldn't matter any more. The question is: what to do.

"Marty and I think it's important that we try to . . . build something together. We don't know yet if we have a strong enough foundation to build on.'

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I shrugged. "So now you see. Your time now is an investment to be madeand it shouldn't be made with me. We both need all of our own lives back, separately, so we can do something with them. Does that make any sense?"

Her eyes said no, but she nodded. She was beating her fist slowly; steadily against the wood of the railing. "I knew all this long ago; knew what should be done. It was easier not to. And now there's no more time to decide, because you've done it for me. I should have known time would have to run out."

She took my arm and turned me to face her. And she spoke very carefully. "Paul, I hope it works out for you and Marty, for your sake. I really do. But I think you're both hanging onto each other to avoid drowning, neither stopping to think that the other might not know how to swim either."

I had never seen Julie cry. I was seeing it now, and it was bad. No quivering, no breaking apart-just the terrible, even-toned whisper of her voice . . . and the tears, even too, one at a time.

I was angry, at nothing and at everything. Why couldn't life allow you to be fair, or at least to be kind? We all seem to want from each other just the things that, in each case, can't be given.

She was speaking again.

"You look sorry, Paul. Sorry for me. Don't be. In a way, I'm stronger than you. I'll feel lonely for a while, lost-and then snapping back and taking life as it comes again; enjoying whatever it offers, whenever I can. You aren't able to do that. You take each comfort you can find, and hold it until you can trade it for another one, never sure of what you want, only knowing that the want is there. I'm sorry for you."

She walked away quickly; then stopped at the lantern and turned. "I shouldn't say anything more, Paul, but I have to. I loved you." She turned away again, but I still heard: "I guess I still do."

The cement recorded the goodbye that the heels tapped out, and the trees whispered it back.

Childishly, I flung a rock at the lantern and shattered the bulb. There was no reflection of light now to disturb the tiny, lapping tongues of black water. There was nothing at all. The goldfish weren't there now, or the sunlight, or the children. Julie wasn't there now.

I started up the path to the pavilion, going faster as I climbed; running the last few steps. It took an eternity to dial my apartment on the outdoor telephone. Then Marty's voice was warm and strong. I forgot how black the water was. He said it again. "Hello? Hello!"

What was it I wanted to say? "Marty, I know what I want. I do, really. You're not a 'comfort'."

He was laughing. "I'm not? I'm sorry. Paul, what the hell are you talking about?"

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