Tears streamed down his cheeks. Paul looked unbelievingly at the last line, then picked the Royal up — he had gone on lifting it like some weird barbell when she was out of the room, God knew why — and shook it again. I was driving to the West Coast to celebrate my liberation from a state of whoredom. She was standing there in the shadows as if she had never been away, wearing one of her woolly skirts and frumpy sweaters; he saw the needle in her hand and understood it hadnt been a sting but an injection.
This was no game; it was his life.
but he doubted if the cockadoodie Roydmans or anyone else up here had anything which came close to what he was now looking at. The horizon was near; it always was in the Rockies, where longer views of the world were inevitably cut off by uptilted plates of bedrock.