Read Online Nightlight by Michael Cadnum - Free Book Online Page A

in self-analysis. He knew too many people who thought about themselves constantly. They pondered their religious beliefs, or lack of same, their sex lives, or lack of same, and as a result they couldn’t think about anything concrete. They had opinions instead of thoughts. When he talked to them he could tell they were poised on the edge of speech, ready to leap forward with a comment of their own, not listening at all to what was being said.
    Paul listened. He tasted. He paid attention to the details around him. He tried to be a glass the world passed through without change in color or form. He prided himself on his objectivity, and on his interest in the world around him. He was curious, in a world of people who had little interest in anything but themselves.
    It was annoying the way the world had begun to repeat itself. People he had never met before said the things he had heard too often, smiled the same cocky smiles, shook hands in the same way, self-assertive and painfully likable, laughing too quickly, too quick to admire the canapés.
    People were greedy for money and power, but also for something even more elusive: more of themselves. More good looks, more comfort, a better view. So that they could own more of a human life than before, as if they were characters on television whose destinies led them into higher levels of self-assurance, and nothing more.
    A glass between them was crammed with paper packets of sugar. Paul extricated one from the clutch. It was decorated with a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge. He knew that if he examined the others he would see views of different landmarks. Already he could see the Grand Canyon, and a white plume which had to be, he guessed, Old Faithful.
    â€œWill there be anything else?” asked the waitress.
    Why did Paul think, “Yes, there will be much more. I never want to leave this place”?
    He said simply that he did not want anything else. Men at the counter laughed and blew on their coffee and drank it, and outside the rain covered the street with a white stubble that shifted and rippled, like a vision of something that was not real.

10
    Lise handed Paul a sandwich wrapped in plastic. Tuna the color and consistency of peanut butter grinned at him from between the slices of bread. Paul sidled close to her, not wanting anyone else in the grocery store to hear him. “Can’t we get something a little better than this?”
    â€œI want to have a picnic.”
    â€œWe can’t have a picnic. It’s pouring!”
    â€œWe’ll huddle somewhere.”
    It almost sounded inviting, Paul admitted to himself, admiring the way she replaced one orange and selected another. “I’ve been on some great picnics,” said Paul. “There can be problems, though. Pine needles always fall on something you’re eating.”
    She plucked the sandwich from his hand. She tossed it onto a pile of identical, sealed packages of white bread and gluey filling. Paul picked it up again. “I’m sorry. If you want to have a picnic, we’ll have a picnic. I’ll find some cheese. One of those nice Camemberts they make around here. And a wine of some sort. We can—” He pictured them huddled in the rain. “We can find someplace where it’s not raining so hard.”
    â€œWe are supposed to be having a vacation, after all,” she said.
    â€œThat’s right. And everyone knows you have picnics all the time on vacations.”
    â€œI was reading the Song of Solomon last night. ‘O that you would kiss me with the kisses of your mouth! For your love is better than wine.’ And I wanted to have a picnic. And there’s no reason to be chained by the weather. We can do whatever we want to do.”
    â€œDo you often read the Bible?”
    â€œI read everything I can get my hands on,” she answered. “I read Freud in the sixth grade, hiding the book from my parents and the teacher because it