Memoirs Of An Invisible Man Read Online Free Page A

wheat, newspapers. Ballet lessons. Handguns. Sonnets. The point is that at any given price there will be some associated level of supply — the amount of the product or service that people are motivated to provide at that price.”
    “What happens at the ends?”
    What does happen at the ends? I tried to reason it out quickly. “Different things, none of them important.” I ran my hand along the upper surface of her thigh, feeling it move under the blue linen skirt. She ignored my hand and peered intently at the drawing lying next to it on her lap.
    “Try to pay attention and not ask difficult questions,” I went on. I drew a pair of coordinates and another curve under the first. “The demand curve — I’m drawing it separately to begin with — is the same idea, but it slopes the other way.”
    “Always?”
    I seemed to recall that you could contrive cases where it sloped the wrong way, but I couldn’t remember whether you could always explain them away or whether you just ignored them. I should, I thought, quickly read through some elementary economics text and review some of these things.
    “For all practical purposes, always. I don’t want to make this explanation unnecessarily complicated.”
    I slid my left hand under her skirt, and ran my fingers several inches along the inside of her thigh. Her legs spread apart a fraction of an inch to welcome my hand. Then she reached out with her hand and held it firmly to keep it from straying further.
    “Actually,” I said, “with the demand curve this axis represents the amount that will be purchased at a given price.”
    Still holding the pencil, I reached up with my right hand and brushed the hair away from her neck. I leaned over and kissed her behind her ear. She continued to study the paper on her lap, but she shuddered.
    “What I want to understand,” she said — a little absently, I thought, “is how you combine the curves. And why.”
    I reached over and redrew the second curve, superimposing it on the first. I kissed her again on the back of her neck. Her shoulder pulled up and her head twisted back in a slow little writhing movement. Her grip on my hand relaxed. I leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. She opened her mouth, and our tongues twisted over each other. She took my head in her hands, pulling it toward her. We both twisted sideways on the seat so that we faced each other, our knees jammed together. With my fingers spread, I ran my hands up and down her sides. My thumbs pressed into her breasts. I held her rib cage and felt it swell and contract heavily with her breathing, her heart banging against my hand. I drew my left hand over her breast. As I kissed her mouth, her neck, and her eyes, I slid my hand into her blouse, pulling open a button. I could feel the swollen nipple under my fingers and then my palm. I flattened her breast under my hand. I undid the rest of the buttons on her blouse and ran both hands all over her torso. I leaned forward and kissed the hard nipples. She arched her back, pushing her breasts forward to me.
    The space in which we were trying to maneuver was impossibly awkward, the seats too short, and the gap between them too narrow. I twisted around further until I was half standing with one leg on the floor and with the other kneeling on the seat next to Anne. I kissed her on the mouth again, while I ran my hands down her smooth back. I can remember perfectly how beautiful her naked breasts were in that railway car. She started to pull at the knot of my necktie and then, impatiently changing her mind, left it and began pulling open each button down the front of my shirt except the top, collar button. She slipped her hands under my shirt and pulled the shirttails free of my trousers. Her fingers were traveling over my chest and sides and around the small of my back. She leaned over and kissed me on the chest and on the side. I ran one hand across the smooth flesh of her belly and then slid it under the waistband.