I stood at the corner. I had to wait to try to make clear to her that only the United State directs me, not she. “You’ll do as I say!” How sure she is! One hears it in her voice. And what if … ?
Unifs, dull gray as if woven of damp fog would appear for a second at my side and then soundlessly redissolve. I was unable to turn my eyes away from the clock. … I seemed myself to have become that sharp, quivering hand which marked the seconds. Ten, eight minutes … three … two minutes to twelve. … Of course! I was late! Oh, how I hated her, yet I had to wait to prove that I. …
A red line in the milky whiteness of the fog—like blood, like a wound made by a sharp knife—her lips.
“I made you wait, I think? And now you are late for your work anyway?”
“How … ? Well, yes, it is too late now.”
I glanced at her lips in silence. All women are lips, lips only. Some are rosy lips, tense and round, a ring, a tender fence separating one from the world. But these! A second ago they were not here, and suddenly … the slash of a knife! I seemed to see even the dripping sweet blood. …
She came nearer. She leaned gently against my shoulder; we became one. Something streamed from her into me. I felt, I knew, it should be so. Every fibre of my nervous system told me this, every hair on my head, every painfully sweet heartbeat. And what a joy it was to submit to what should be. A fragment of iron-ore probably feels the same joy of submission to precise, inevitable law, when it clings to a loadstone. The same joy is in a stone which thrown aloft, hesitates a little at the height of its flight and then rushes down to the ground. It is the same with a man when in his final convulsion he takes a last deep breath and dies.
I remember I smiled vaguely and said for no reason at all, “Fog … very.”
“Thou lovest fog, dost thou?”