A Certain Age Read Online Free Page A

realize things aren't supposed to be like this anymore. I mean, your job at Quayle's—that's a very nice job for a young woman to have—but it's not something you can really look to as a career. Did you look on it as a career? I don't get that sense with you. People must come in there—the previews and so forth— who would be very glad to meet you."
    "I know!" Florence said. "It's just that . . . well, I'm very shy, and, I don't know, nobody ever seems to want to speak to me—
    "I don't see you as being shy, Florence, whatever you say." Again he began to bellow with laughter, which sounded more similar to the bellowing of an elk than to anything human. "If people aren't coming to you, it's probably that they're frightened of you. You can look quite imposing, you know. You'll have to go to them." The truth was that her superiors, hungry and suspicious as coyotes, watched her as if she were a vole. Quayle's was not to be looked upon as a marriage service. It had been tried before. In any event, the only men who came in to buy from the jewelry sales
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    were there to buy presents for wives, girlfriends or fiancées. Or gay men acquiring for their shops.
    When she didn't respond John tugged at his hair, examining a few strands in the palm of his hand. "I'm going to catch the sports on the TV downstairs in the game room before I go up. Do you want to join me?"
    "No, I think I'll just sit out here for a few minutes."
    "Help yourself if you want another drink—and let me know if you want me to find you that blanket."
    "Thanks, John."
    She was aware that there was someone else in the room with her. Natalie was right; she hadn't needed a blanket. With only one window there was no cross-ventilation, and now, at three or four in the morning, the air outside had gone perfectly still. She could hear the low roaring of waves in the distance. Whoever was in the room coughed softly but did not move, as if aware that one false step might cause a variety of appliances and objects to come crashing down. "Who is it?" she said.
    "Ssshhh!" the figure said. "Don't turn on the light. I just came to make sure you were all right. It's me."
    "John?" Florence said. "What are you doing here?"
    He stumbled across the room in her direction, managing not to trip over anything, and sat on the edge of the bed. She was about to sit up and ask him to leave when he flattened himself on top of her, so forcefully she could barely speak. "What are you doing?" she repeated. "John, this isn't right. Get out! What about Natalie?" She wriggled away. Nevertheless, he pulled down her pajama bottoms and hooked his fingers into her as if hoisting a fish by its gills.
    "Don't worry," he said, slinging his other forearm onto her chest to hold her in place. "Natalie doesn't care; we haven't slept together in years. She doesn't mind at all. We're getting divorced soon. Please, Florence, you've got to help me. I'm going to die if I
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    have to go on like this. I've had a crush on you for years. It was when I first met you and you smiled. It was so . . . guileless, so open. You never see a genuine smile like that, not in New York. You have no idea how terrible things have been for me." He covered her face with kisses while simultaneously his fingers went about their grim, forceful inspection. "Please, Florence, please," he said, covering her mouth with the pillow. He seemed so frantic, so desperate, that she couldn't help but feel sorry for him; in the dark, in a strange bedroom, none of it seemed especially real. It was peculiar that Natalie had never mentioned this impending divorce, but perhaps she didn't feel much like talking about it, which was understandable. No wonder she seemed so harsh. At the same time, a wave of sympathy for him came over Florence; he was desperate, desperate, spinning wildly on a shimmery line of despair. These people only seemed to have everything. Underneath was nothing, an elaborately frosted cardboard box.
    "Poor John," she murmured,