D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye Someone had hooked electrodes up to either ear and slammed waves of electricity through his skull. His brain was static and noise. Questions surged on that buzzing sea, thoughts tumbled and spun. The mop handle slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a hollow clatter. His wife was alive. Dressed in a plain T-shirt and jeans, her hair now blond and pulled through the back of her baseball cap, a splotchy mark like a bruise running up her cheek and across one eye, but all of that no more concealing to his eyes than tissue paper. There were the high cheekbones, the pale pink lips he’d kissed a hundred thousand times, the long graceful neck, and the eyes, the eyes, bright and alive. The connection between body and mind strained. He felt like a marionette with half the strings cut, a jerky, drunken thing. Was he going mad, really mad? Had all of this been some crazy dream? How could she possibly . . . He blinked, swallowed, made his lips move. “You?
What do You think about The Two Deaths Of Daniel Hayes?
