Read Online Late at Night by William Schoell - Free Book Online Page A

stars. Or perhaps they were just walking along, talking about this or that, skirting the issue that really mattered, their interest in each other.
    Everson sighed, rose from his chair, and yawned. He excused himself, admitting that he really felt like bed and must forego his duties as host for the remainder of the evening. He had been putting off his confrontation with Lynn, but was as anxious as he imagined everyone else must be for things between him and her to mend before it put a damper on the rest of the weekend.
    “I hope Lynn will be feeling better tomorrow,” Gloria said in that spirited way of hers. She was obviously feeling “no pain.” Her bland boyfriend sat at her side conversing with Cynthia, who sat in a chair across from him. Gloria seemed like a third wheel, determined to drink her way into oblivion—the oblivion meant for older people like her and himself, Everson thought ruefully. People who dared to love those much younger than themselves. Now, now, he told himself, quelch the bitterness before it festers. Bitterness is so unbecoming. An unfit emotion for a gentleman of his stature.
    He said good night to the others, then made his way up the stairs to his bedroom. I should have asked Gloria to go for a walk, he thought. I don’t think I interest her physically any more than she interests me, but at least we would have had a lot to talk about. How did she deal with it? he wondered. Having a young lover, the insecurity of it all? How did she deal with Jerry’s probable infidelities?
    But it would have been a serious breach of etiquette to ask her, he knew. Older people simply did not go around asking one another about their younger spouses or lovers. It simply wasn’t done. It would have served to remind the person you asked that they were decades, generations, ahead of the one they were in love with—and that one simply did not do. He could not even imagine what his reaction might be if Gloria were to open the subject up to him.
    He had one thing to be grateful for, at least. His lover’s aunt could hardly look down on him as some kind of “dirty old man”—how he hated that term—when she herself was “robbing the cradle” —and he hated that term even more. Yes, it was too bad; he and Gloria—both embroiled in similar romantic circumstances—might have given one another loads of comfort and advice, common understanding, yet they were separated by a wall of propriety that was as real and solid as an actual battlement.
    Everson saw that the lights were off in the bedroom. He felt momentary relief—it could all be avoided for one more evening. But the relief was fast replaced by anxiety. He and Lynn had to have it out before morning, before they were again surrounded by all the others, incapable of coming to terms in private. He supposed he should have gone up earlier, excused himself, and spoken to her while she was awake. But she had been so unreasonable before dinner. Thinking back, he found he was incapable of determining just when and how it had all gone wrong. Everything had been so perfect; the trip over, showing Lynn and the others their quarters, getting dressed for cocktails. They had made love while the others were still getting ready—fast, hurried love, but no less enjoyable because of it. What had happened afterwards?
    He went over on cat’s feet to the bathroom and turned on the light switch. The light from the bathroom would give him enough illumination to see by without waking Lynn. He could tell from the slow rise and fall of her chest that she was sleeping, genuinely sleeping. He knew the rhythm of her sleep well enough now to know when she was faking.
    He sat beside her on the bed and stroked her hair. She was a pretty girl— woman, he thought, reprimanding himself—she was adamant about that and he couldn’t blame her. Women often mistook his fatherly affection for condescension. She was pretty, but not beautiful. Her face was broad, her features large. Without