Don't I Know You? Read Online Free

was.
    â€œOh?”
    â€œI just don’t want to hurt his feelings.”
    â€œThat doesn’t sound promising.”
    Two could play this game, I thought, turning toward him.
    â€œYour wife must miss you too. With all those kids.”
    â€œYes. But I think she’s also secretly relieved to run the house as she likes when I’m away.”
    â€œLarry writes me every day,” I said, rolling my eyes. My callousness knew no bounds.
    We reached a cemetery and turned into it. The path faded into uncut grass and scatterings of wildflowers, yellow and white. Most of the old tombstones were drifting down into the earth. A bunchy-looking tree stood in the middle of the cemetery, laden with small green apples. We sat under it. I had on my second-favorite seersucker shorts and was careful to avoid any mushy fallen ones.
    â€œDid you get a chance to read any of that poetry?” he asked.
    â€œYes, I read it all, last night.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œI loved it.”
    â€œGood. I’ll give you more.”
    â€œAnd I read your story about the A&P boy too. It’s very well written.”
    At this he smiled.
    â€œBurlington has an A&P too,” I added.
    In the shade of the tree, the ground was a little damp. To avoid getting a wet spot on my shorts I jumped up and went over to a tombstone and read the epitaph aloud. “‘Here Lies our Belov’d Annabelle/Who Is with the Angels Now.’ Look at the dates,” I said; “she was only fourteen years old when she died.”
    He came over to read it and we stood together, arms touching. As I brushed away some vines that were creeping over the inscription, he took my hand and inspected the back of it.
    â€œWhat’s this?”
    â€œWarts,” I said. I withdrew my hand. “I’ve had them since I was ten.” There were three on my ring finger, small and white, scarcely noticeable, but I was self-conscious about them.
    â€œIn the Middle Ages, people thought warts were caused by someone putting a curse on you, and that a charm could cure you too.”
    â€œWitches, you mean.”
    â€œFor instance, they thought that driving nails into an oak tree could prevent a headache, or that wearing a ring made from the hinges of a coffin could heal cramps.”
    He ran his fingers over the pale bumps with their mottled, brainlike surface. “What do you think—shall I try?”
    â€œI don’t know. The doctor burnt them with some frozen liquid stuff last year but they just grew back.”
    He brought the back of my hand to his lips. That’s when I got scared. The sound of a truck laboring up over the hill, unseen, grew louder. I turned and began walking quickly toward the gate.
    â€œBut you have to believe in the spell, or nothing will happen,” John said, right behind me.
    â€œWhat is it with you and things happening ?” The truck driver with his load of lumber sped past us without a glance at this ill-matched couple walking single-file in the afternoon heat.
    â€œIt’s a perfectly good beginning for a play, Rose,” John said. “You just need to keep working on it.”
    When we reached the grounds of the school, we made our separate ways into the house, him through the back door. It was understood that we had embarked on something secretive. Up in the dorm, L’Orren was sitting cross-legged on her bed writing in her notebook with a thick-nibbed fountain pen.
    â€œWhere were you?” she asked. That girl did not beat around the bush.
    â€œI went down to the bridge for a walk. I’m having trouble with my opening scene.”
    â€œWe missed you at lunch,” she said unconvincingly.
    It soon became evident that no one in our class was a writer of any real promise, so John busied himself organizing entertainment to fill our evenings. He found some National Film Board shorts in the parlor cabinets, and we screened them on a tacked-up bedsheet in the rec