Sex And Death In The American Novel - Plot & Excerpts
Coming back to my apartment was like stepping into another person's life. In my bedroom stood the neatly made bed, red comforter, and shimmery gold pillowcases that matched the drapes. Then there was the fuzzy white rug on the floor. Tristan got that one for me, he said it went with the décor, and I kept it so I wouldn't hurt his feelings. There was the dining room where I'd cooked for him when he helped me move in. I squeezed my eyes shut until they hurt, forcing the images out of my mind, though the heaviness was already settling in. Fatigue hung on me like I hadn't slept in weeks, even though that was all I had been doing lately. I wondered if it was alright to be this tired after only a ride over on the ferry and a short drive back into the city. Maybe I had cancer, not that it mattered. I went to bed, and for the next week I slept, watched TV, and wandered the rooms too tired to imagine doing anything else. One morning I woke early, and after several minutes of irritable staring at the ceiling, I got up.
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