Authors: Richard Matheson
Because there were things he didn’t like. Little things admittedly but magnified by his never resting mind.
Like the way she had of speaking so loudly in public. The way she spoke to everyone regardless of whether she knew them or not; either to speak a cheery “Hello!” to them in the street or to speak to them in the street or to speak to them at length when she and Erick were waiting on movie lines or dancing in crowded places.
It displeased him. His mother had taught him that it was not right to speak to strangers.
It appeared sometimes, however, that none of the men in town were strangers to Sally. It was incredible to Erick yet it seemed she knew every man in the college. No matter where they went together it was almost a sure thing that they’d pass a fellow she knew. Then it was Hello Joe or Mike or Bill or Tom or Felix. It got to Erick. He was never the sort to take kindly to opposition. Competition made him shrivel. If he didn’t win immediately, he gave up. And that feeling in regard to Sally produced many sullen moments in him.
Which she noticed. And when she did notice she would take his hand and look deeply into his eyes and smile, moving her lips just a trifle as if kissing him. And the complete tenderness of the action would, almost always, melt him.
She could smile at him too with the healthy wickedness of a happy young child. They talked about sex, kidded about it. She was frank and openly interested in the subject. After a while he began to caress her body and she didn’t stop him. She seemed to enjoy it. And that made him draw back for a while. Because he decided that she did it with all the men she dated. And for a while he created in himself the belief that he was slumming.
She was too open with her affections. He was used to guarded smiles, chaste, unrevealing caresses.
When
they
danced, Sally held on close, pressing her swelling stomach against his, rubbing her cheek over his. And singing to him. Softly. But everyone could hear it. Like in the movies, he thought the first time, a little disconcerted but still pleased. Then it began to annoy him. He never liked being conspicuous. So, during those times, he would stamp a look of parental resignation on his face and pretend to the other people that he was treating her like an exuberant child.
She called him more than he called her. Once he tried to remember the last time he’d called her and asked if she was free on a certain night. But he couldn’t remember. Somehow their dates were never single, detached affairs. They blended one into the other; the end of one included the plans for the beginning of another.
And, if there were no definite plans, any number of times she would call and he would hear her cheery voice saying, “Hi! Whatcha doing?”
* * * *
He hadn’t seen her for a week and a half. He was reworking the script and didn’t get to rehearsals.
Then one night he dropped over to the auditorium and sat through rehearsal. After it was over he went down to get Sally. Her face grew bright in an happy smile when she saw him.
“Erick!” she said excitedly and clutched at his hand.
They walked along the dark, silent campus, arms around each other.
“I missed you,” she said.
“Did you?”
“Yes. Were you angry with me?”
“No. I had to revise the script.”
“Is it all right?”
“It’s okay.”
“You didn’t call me.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I was so busy.”
“You didn’t feel like it.”
He looked at her, then smiled a little sheepishly. “What can I say?” he asked her.
She rubbed her cheek on his shoulder.
“Don’t say anything,” she said, “You’re back. That’s all that matters.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. She turned and pushed against him, her arms sliding around him. “I want to get inside of you,” she murmured suddenly, almost desperately. “Go ahead, get inside of me.” “Let’s stop walking.”
They stopped and faced each other in the dark. They held each other close and she breathed on his neck.
“Didn’t you miss me at all?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
“Sally.”
“I’m sorry. I hope you did,” she said.
They stood in the doorway of a store waiting for the bus to come. “Taking me home?” she asked.
“Sure,” he said.
He had his arms around her. She sighed and held on tight, locking her hands behind Erick’s back.
“Oh Erick,” she said. She looked up. “Please kiss me.”
She raised her face. It shone in the dull green neon light from the store window. He bent over and brushed his lips over hers. She kissed him back, her warm lips softening under his.
“Oh, I love you,” she said simply.
His breath caught.
“You never s-said
that
before,” he said.
“I can’t help it,” she said quietly, “You know it. I know it. Why should I pretend?”
“I’m … glad,” he decided uncertainly.
“I hope you are.”
On the bus she rested her head on his shoulder. He put his arm around her and breathed in the perfume of her hair. He looked down at her breasts moving gently as she breathed.
When they got off the bus, she said, “Are you sorry I told you?”
“No. Why should I be?”
“I’ve spoiled the mystery,” she said.
They sat on the porch steps. “You haven’t spoiled anything,” he said, “I don’t like mysteries.”
She leaned against him. “Well, my mystery didn’t last very long.”
She pressed tightly against him.
“Your face is hot,” he said.
“I’m feverish,” she answered, suddenly breathless. Her lips moved across his cheek and she pressed her parted mouth convulsively on his. She squirmed in his arms, a tiny groan started in her throat. He felt himself grow restive.
“Take it easy,” he said when their lips parted. He felt himself shaking. At the way she clung to him, breathing in his ear.
“I can’t,” she said helplessly, “I
can’t!
I love you,
I love you!
I want you so much!”
“Sally,” he whispered, lost, confused.
And felt cold.
He kissed her burning neck and was cold. She bent her forehead down on his arms. He pushed aside the hair on the back of her neck and pressed his lips against the hot flesh. She shook and gasped as though she couldn’t breathe. And he was cold.
She straightened up suddenly. She bit her lip. Tears came to her eyes. She sat looking at him, her body quivering. He almost winced under her intense stare.
Then, with a gasp, she threw herself against him and dug her fingers into his back.
“Oh, please love me!
Please
, Erick!
Please
love me!”
He held her tightly and said nothing as she cried in his arms, her body shaking helplessly. He disappeared from the spot. He was up in the black sky watching dark spots waver on the moon. He was in the trees listening to them whisper dully among themselves. He was with the dog that barked up the street somewhere. He was in the bus that roared by on Main Street, sparks flitting from the exhaust, tiny figures sitting inside.
Then he shivered, back again to her, with her sobbing as if her heart would break. And, although he wanted to, he couldn’t seem to care one way or the other.
“May I use your handkerchief?” she said meekly.
“Huh? Oh, sure.”
She dried her eyes and cheeks. “You mustn’t mind me,” she said, “Spring fever, I guess.”
“I thought it was love.”
“I mean me getting so upset.”
“Sex, maybe.”
Silence. “Maybe,” she said, quietly. She gave back his handkerchief. “Thank you.”
She rested against him. After a while she sighed, “You’re so nice and warm.” And she lifted his hand and kissed it and pressed it against her cheek for a long time.
* * * *
He was sitting in the darkened auditorium when she came in the side entrance. He pretended not to see her. She came over and stood in front of him. He looked up, annoyed.
“Hello, darling,” she said, cheerfully.
“Sit down,” he said. She sat next to him.
“How are you?” she asked.
“I’m trying to watch the play, Sally.”
“I’m sorry.”
They sat quietly until the scene ended. “Thirteen,” Lynn said through the public address system. Some of the cast sitting in the auditorium rose slowly and went on stage. “You’re wasting time,” Lynn’s voice crackled acidly through the air.
“Can you say hello now?” she asked.
“Hello,” he said. Sullenly.
“Didn’t they cut some lines in that last scene. I seem to remem …”
“Yes,” he interrupted.
“Why did they?”
He twisted slightly in his seat. “I don’t know, they didn’t ask me,” he said irritably.
“But they can’t do that without your permission,” she said.
“They
did
it.”
“Well,” she said, “I don’t think they …”
She stopped and was silent a moment. Then she said penitently, “Don’t be angry.”
He gritted his teeth and shook off her words with a twist of his head. She said no more.
When the next scene ended, Lynn had the lights put on and went down front to discuss the first act with the cast.
Erick noticed Sally looking at him. He turned down his mouth. Then, when she didn’t turn away, he looked over. She didn’t move her gaze. Their eyes met. She looked so hurt that he smiled to ease the moment.
It melted her. She smiled warmly and reached out her hand to touch his arm. Then she took his hand.
Her palm was wet. That irritated him. It made his hand itch. He noticed suddenly how her skirt had slid over her stockingless crossed legs making her right calf bulge out where it pressed against the left. And her dress was cut too low, he thought. He saw the edges of her pink brassiere, saw the fleshy line that ran between her breasts. He let his hand go limp and turned away from her.
“Don’t be discouraged,” she said, “It will come out all right.”
“Yeah.”
When the next act started he noticed, with growing irritation, that she kept looking at him.
“The play is up front, Sally,” he said, thinking his tone a patient one.
“Is it?” she asked.
He gave her a look of cold disgust and turned back front.
After the scene ended the assistant director came back and dropped down next to Sally.
“How about ditching this jerk and coming with me after rehearsal,” he said, jerking a thumb towards Erick.
Sally smiled a little. “Maybe,” she said.
Erick drew back his hand and wiped perspiration from it with his handkerchief. He didn’t turn to look at them. The assistant director said, “Has he been mistreating you? By God, I’ll kill him!”
Erick turned. “Why don’t you go and
assist
the director?”
“Sally is going out with me tonight. Any objections?”
Erick glanced at Sally moment. The look she gave him irritated him further. “None whatever,” he said.
“You see!” The assistant director was jubilant. “He has no appreciation of,” he leered at her, “The
better
things in life. Arf, arf!”
Sally said nothing. It made Erick angrier still. Get the hell out of here! his alien mind shouted. The feeling of triumph was draining quick. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to push it all away. It hurt him.
When the next scene started, Sally and the assistant director got up and left. Erick watched them leave as the side door opening, shooting a ray of light across the back aisle. Then he clenched his fists and stared fiercely at the stage, hissing in irritation, twisting uncomfortably, feeling sick. The play sounded ridiculous to him.
When the rehearsal ended he found Sally on the stage entrance porch. He walked up to her.
“Going home?” he asked her.
“I suppose so,” she said.
“Want me to come?”
She looked away from him and he saw her throat moving.
“If you want,” she said quietly. He suddenly felt sorry. He put an arm around her shoulders.
“Did I treat you so terribly,” he said.
“Y-yes,” she said.
He took out his handkerchief and dabbed at the tears on her cheeks.
“Better?” he asked.
“As long as you’re nice to me,” she said.
“I’ll try,” he said, kissing her cheek.
They rode home and sat on the porch looking at the sky. “Look at all the stars,” he said.
“It’s lovely,” she said. Without enthusiasm.
“Let’s sit on the lawn.”
She hesitated. Then she said, “All right. I’ll get the blanket.”
They spread out the blanket, sat down on it. He put his head in her warm lap.
“I can see you,” he said.
She said nothing.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath.
“I was burned up Sally,” he said, “The play’s not going good. Lousy test marks today. I took it out on you.”
She stared straight ahead. “It must be nice not to be a pushover,” she said, bitterly.
He sat up and put his arms around her, kissed her neck.
“I’m sorry, Sal”
A moment later she was pressed against him, murmuring, “I couldn’t
not
forgive you if I tried.” And her lips molded themselves to his.
“Erick, Erick, if only I didn’t love you so much.”
He felt ill at ease again. Because every time she said it, he was more compelled to say it back. It made a vacuum on his side into which all her love was rushing, overbalancing everything.
“I wish you could love me,” she said.
“I do, too”
“You’re afraid, aren’t you?”
“Afraid?”
“Afraid I’ll interfere. With your work. I wouldn’t, darling. I’d help you.”
“You’d want to help. I know that. But …”
He rested his head on her shoulder and she caressed his hair with her gentle fingers.
“It isn’t just a matter of wanting and not wanting,” he said, “Marriage brings responsibilities. How could I do all I want to do and still support a wife and children?”
“I could work too. I’d expect to.”
He felt a slight undefined resentment that she should keep arguing with him despite the fact that he seemed to have covered the objections adequately.
“You’d have time,” she said.
“I’d have to work too much.”
“You’ll have to work after school anyway.”