Bright, Precious Days

1

ONCE, NOT SO VERY LONG AGO, young men and women had come to the city because they loved books, because they wanted to write novels or short stories or even poems, or because they wanted to be associated with the production and distribution of those artifacts and with the people who created them. For those who haunted suburban libraries and provincial bookstores, Manhattan was the shining island of letters. New York, New York: It was right there on the title pages — the place from which the books and magazines emanated, home of all the publishers, the address of The New Yorker and The Paris Review, where Hemingway had punched O’Hara and Ginsberg seduced Kerouac, Hellman sued McCarthy and Mailer had punched everybody, where — or so they imagined — earnest editorial assistants and aspiring novelists smoked cigarettes in cafés while reciting Dylan Thomas, who’d taken his last breath in St. Vincent’s Hospital after drinking seventeen whiskeys at the White Horse Tavern, which was still serving drinks to the tourists and the young litterateurs who flocked here to raise a glass to the memory of the Welsh bard. These dreamers were people of the book; they loved the sacred New York texts: The House of Mirth, Gatsby, Breakfast at Tiffany’s et al., but also all the marginalia: the romance and the attendant mythology — the affairs and addictions, the feuds and fistfights. Like everyone else in their lousy high school, they’d read The Catcher in the Rye, but unlike everyone else they’d really felt it — it spoke to them in their own language — and they secretly conceived the ambition to one day move to New York and write a novel called Where the Ducks Go in Winter or maybe just The Ducks in Winter.

Russell Calloway had been one of them, a suburban Michigander who had an epiphany after his ninth-grade teacher assigned Thomas’s “Fern Hill” in honors English, who subsequently vowed to devote his life to poetry until A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man changed his religion to fiction. Russell went east to Brown, determined to acquire the skills to write the great American novel, but after reading Ulysses—which seemed to render most of what came afterward anticlimactic — and comparing his own fledgling stories with those written by his Brown classmate Jeff Pierce, he decided he was a more plausible Maxwell Perkins than a Fitzgerald or Hemingway. After a postgraduate year at Oxford he moved to the city and eventually landed a coveted position opening mail and answering the phone for legendary editor Harold Stone, in his leisure hours prowling the used bookstores along Fourth Avenue in the Village, haunting the bars at the Lion’s Head and Elaine’s, catching glimpses of graying literary lions at the front tables. And if the realities of urban life and the publishing business had sometimes bruised his romantic sensibilities, he never relinquished his vision of Manhattan as the mecca of American literature, or of himself as an acolyte, even a priest, of the written word. One delirious night a few months after he arrived in the city, he accompanied an invited guest to a Paris Review party in George Plimpton’s town house, where he shot pool with Mailer and fended off the lisping advances of Truman Capote after snorting coke with him in the bathroom.

Though the city after three decades seemed in many ways diminished from the capital of his youth, Russell Calloway had never quite fallen out of love with it, nor with his sense of his own place here. The backdrop of Manhattan, it seemed to him, gave every gesture an added grandeur, a metropolitan gravitas.

Not long after he became an editor, Russell had published his best friend Jeff Pierce’s first book — a collection of stories; and then, after Jeff died, his novel, two of the main characters in which — it could not be denied — were inspired by Russell and his wife, Corrine. Editing that book would have been difficult enough, given its not-quite-finished state, even if it hadn’t involved a love triangle featuring a married couple and their closest friend, but Russell was proud of the scrupulous, sometimes painful professionalism with which he’d tried to implement Jeff’s intentions. The novel, Youth and Beauty, was generously praised by the critics — including several who’d been unkind about his debut — as books by recently deceased authors often are, especially those who die young and in a manner that confirms the myth of the artist as a self-destructive genius. Even before the book was published there was spirited bidding for the film rights. It sold well in hardcover and again, a year later, in paperback, and then its sales fell off, dwindling into the double digits a few years back, its author little more than a name associated with the period of big hair and big shoulder pads, yet another of the victims of the great epidemic that scythed the ranks of the artistic community, although, as a heterosexual, he didn’t really fit the profile of the plague narrative and his fiction had more in common with that of James Gould Cozzens or John O’Hara than with the high-gloss, coke-fueled prose of his famous contemporaries. Over time his reputation faded like the Polaroids from their days at Brown. Then, gradually, almost inexplicably, the book and its author had been resurrected.

This process first came to Russell’s attention with a long essay in the inaugural issue of a magazine called The Believer, which Jonathan Tashjian, his PR director, had shown him. The writer of the essay claimed to be part of a growing legion of fans, and cited a Web site, Lovejeffpierce.com. Just when Russell had begun to suspect that earnest young people cared much less about literature than his own generation had, a new wave of book people rose up to adopt Jeff. The appetite for his work was fed in part by its very obscurity and by the lack of availability of the books, which had fallen out of print, abetted by a sudden interest in the eighties on the part of those who were too young to have really experienced that decade. Not long after he took command of his own publishing house, Russell bought back the rights to both books and quickly reprinted them. The sales figures thus far did not begin to reflect the intensity of interest on the part of the early adopters, and Russell could only assume that these true believers would lose interest if and when the books again became popular. Still, the second-generation interest had caught the attention of a production company, which picked up the lapsed movie option, and as literary executor Russell had gotten Corrine attached to the project as a screenwriter; her critically praised adaptation of Graham Greene’s The Heart of the Matter, released the previous year in seven or eight theaters worldwide before going to video, having given her just enough credibility to merit a first crack at the script. After two drafts they wanted to hire a new writer, but Russell had insisted that Corrine stay involved. Though they hadn’t heard from the would-be producers in almost a year, the option had been renewed again just a few weeks ago.

In the meantime, he’d agreed to have lunch with the creator of another Jeff Pierce Web site, one Astrid Kladstrup. Unlike some of his colleagues, Russell believed in the potential importance of the Internet and the blogosphere, which he himself had difficulty plumbing; this was one of the main reasons he’d hired Jonathan, who lived in that world, and also why he’d agreed to talk to this young fan, although he’d possibly been unduly influenced by a photo of Jeff’s latest fan on the Web site.

When she appeared in his office doorway, escorted by his assistant, Gita, she looked even younger and hotter than in her photograph, so much so that he felt guilty at having invited her to lunch in the first place. She was petite and voluptuous, her figure highlighted by what looked like a vintage dress in a shiny red fabric, the narrow waist accented by a flared skirt. She had pouty red lips beneath a lacquered brunette bob and wore heavy black glasses that seemed somehow ironic, and suddenly he felt like Humbert fucking Humbert.

He rose and walked around his desk to greet her. “Astrid?”

“Very nice to meet you, Mr. Calloway.”

“Please, call me Russell.” He almost said “Mr. Calloway is my father” but realized how incredibly old that joke was, how old it would make him sound, and how lame, although it was possible, of course, that she was so young that it would be new to her. “Have a seat.”

“It’s weird,” she said, tilting her head to one side and then the other, like a parrot, as she studied him. “I feel like I know you.”

“If you’re imagining me as the character in Jeff’s book—”

“Sorry, I guess that’s pretty pathetic.”

“Jeff would have been the first to insist on the autonomy of his fictional characters.” Not wanting to sound pompous, he added, “When he published a chapter of the novel in Granta way back in ’87, he categorically denied it had anything to do with us.”

“You and Corrine.”

Hearing his wife’s name on these plump, shiny, strawberry-colored lips, he felt a twinge of — what? He nodded. “Yes. Nothing to do with us, he insisted.”

“And you believed him?”

At the time in question, Russell had been furious, the characters being all too recognizable in those early drafts. “Well, I wasn’t altogether pleased with that particular piece.”

She nodded adorably. “Still, you look exactly like I thought you would.”

“Only older,” he said, trying to maintain a modicum of sanity and decorum.

“And this place,” she said, waving a forefinger from side to side. “It looks like an editor’s office should.”

“Thanks. One of the perks of buying a venerable old publisher on life support was the nineteenth-century town house that came with it.” Russell tended to speak of himself as the proprietor of the operation, though in fact his equity share was considerably smaller than his investors’ and was about to shrink further if the fall list didn’t start performing better. This past spring he’d had to rent out the top floor of the town house — to a couture-shopping Web site, no less — and cram two subrights assistants into Jonathan’s office. His took up the back of the second floor, overlooking the courtyard and the scruffy garden out back, which looked far more impressive in the verdant months. The side walls were essentially floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that culminated twelve feet above the floors.

“So you weren’t…always here?”

“Back in Jeff’s day, no. I was working for Corbin, Dern then. I took over McCane, Slade in 2002.”

“Great place. Kind of creaky and dusty and Dickensian. Sorry, I didn’t mean that as an insult.” She stood up and walked over to a shelf filled with photographs, focusing on the one of Jeff slouched against the door of his East Village apartment.

“That was taken in 1986.”

“Wow, do you think we could get a copy for the site?”

“I’m sure we could manage that.”

“This is cool,” she said, pointing at the photo of Jack Nicholson, a signed publicity still from The Shining. “What does it say?”

“It says, ‘To Russ, who gives good book.’ I did the movie tie-in paperback years ago and Stephen King got him to sign that for me. I don’t know why I still have it. And that’s John Berryman, one of my all-time favorite poets. You should read The Dream Songs if you haven’t.”

“Is he the one who jumped off the bridge?”

“Well, yes.” He was pleased the name was still out there, but hated to hear Berryman reduced to a tabloid headline.

“Who’s that?” she asked, nodding toward a Lynn Goldsmith photo of Keith Richards.

“You’re kidding?”

She shrugged.

“Keith Richards. Of the Rolling Stones.”

“Did you publish him or something?”

He shook his head. “Sadly, no.” The grittier of the Glimmer Twins was, in fact, under contract to Little, Brown for a memoir, with an advance so staggering that Russell had never even considered playing.

“What’s the significance?”

“It’s Keith fucking Richards.”

—

After making sure she wasn’t a vegetarian, as so many young people seemed to be these days — in which case it would’ve been out of the question — he walked her some five blocks south of his West Village office to the Fatted Calf, a self-proclaimed gastropub inspired by recent trends in ever-trendy London. Although it had been open less than two years, it looked as if it had been in business since Prohibition, with creaky, mismatched tables and chairs, its framed butcher’s-eye diagrams of vivisected cow carcasses, on which each cut was carefully labeled. The maître d’—if a guy with a chullo cap and a soul patch qualified as such — led them to a rickety back table with a rough, water-stained top. Russell had discovered the place early on, thanks to a tip from an English writer he published, and had started coming before it became one of the toughest seats in town, although the lunch hour was relatively uncrowded; there weren’t any office buildings in the neighborhood, and the staff inevitably seemed surprised that anybody was actually vertical at this undignified hour.

“The food’s great,” Russell told her. “At night it’s a mob scene. Two-hour wait. They supposedly don’t take reservations, but if you’re a celebrity or a friend of the house, there’s a phone number.”

Astrid examined her surroundings with new interest. “I take it you have the number.”

He shrugged. “I come here a lot.”

“So, what do you recommend?” she asked, leaning forward and gazing at him as if prepared to follow any directive he might issue. He wondered if this was how professors lived, bathed in the admiration of young people, and if so, how they managed it. He’d considered the academic life, and even applied to several grad schools before dropping that idea. Now, mesmerized as he was, he was pretty certain he could keep his mind straight for a couple of hours. But he felt he’d be a shivering wreck if he had to contend with this girl for, say, an entire semester.

“The chef has somehow convinced a lot of New York foodies that an ox-tongue sandwich is a desideratum, not to mention fried tripe,” he said, sounding — he couldn’t help it, apparently — somewhat professorial. “But I remain agnostic, not to say skeptical, about stuff like that. I’d recommend the burger, which they make from a special blend of different cuts of beef from this bespoke butcher in the Meatpacking District, who may, in fact, be the last butcher in the Meatpacking District. All the others got priced out by nightclubs and fashionable restaurants that’ll soon go out of business to make room for even more fashionable restaurants and clubs.”

“Do you mind?” she asked, holding up a small digital recorder.

“I’m not sure I have anything all that interesting to say.”

“Can I get you something to drink?” asked the waitress, a brunette with red streaks in her hair and multiple nose rings. Astrid looked at him for guidance. Although he was known to have a cocktail or a glass of wine with lunch, Russell ordered an iced tea. At some point he had to figure out her age.

“Can I get a Belvedere Bloody Mary?” she asked.

“Our house specialty is actually a Bloody Bull with house-made beef stock that’s rendered here daily.”

“Okay, I’ll try that. With Belvedere. Make it a double.”

“I should tell you we have one special today.”

They waited as the waitress looked around the restaurant before leaning in and resting her palm on the table. She seemed to be judging the advisability of sharing this information.

“We’re all ears,” Russell said.

“Chef calls them ‘crispy bollocks.’ ”

“You’re shitting me,” Russell said.

Astrid, clearly, was unfamiliar with the term, but she leaned forward, an eager student.

“Testicles,” Russell said. “Deep-fried bull’s balls, I’m imagining.”

“Well—”

“Known here in America as prairie oysters.”

Astrid had been game for the house-made beef stock, but this was clearly a step too far. She directed a look at the waitress that seemed to implore her to contradict Russell’s description.

But the waitress, sticking to the party line, merely shrugged her shoulders.

“Really?” She was not a girl who lacked self-confidence, or an adventurous spirit, or the will to appear more sophisticated than she knew herself to be, but neither had she left Middletown, Connecticut, this morning expecting that she’d be invited to eat the balls of a bull, fried or otherwise.

“I think we’ll get two burgers,” Russell said. “Medium rare.”

“Sorry,” Astrid said after the waitress had receded.

“That’s okay. It seems a little surreal even to me, and I’ve lived here for twenty-five years. So you’re at Wesleyan?”

“And you all went to Brown? You and Jeff and Corrine?”

“Class of ’79.”

“Well, I’ve never really done this before, so let’s just start at the beginning. How did you meet Jeff?”

“People were always telling us how we’d love each other. We were both writers, English jocks. So of course I hated him. We didn’t officially meet until sophomore year.”

“You got into a fistfight over a girl?”

“Now you’re extrapolating from the novel.”

“So that didn’t happen?”

“Not exactly. It’s actually hard for me sometimes to separate the fact from the fiction. Jeff’s version can be very compelling. He was a good writer. A very good writer. So at this point it isn’t always easy to remember what really happened as opposed to his reinvention of it. There was a punch thrown, I know that much. We were at a party and he flicked a cigarette in my beer cup. And I jumped up and tried to hit him, but I think he ducked away. That night’s shrouded in an alcoholic haze. And the next thing I remember we were lending each other books and talking late into the night over Gauloises and Jack Daniel’s about the Frankfurt School and Exile on Main Street and narrative modalities in Ulysses.”

“Like, what books were you lending?”

He thought about it. “Céline, Nathanael West, Paul Bowles, Hunter Thompson, Raymond Carver. Carver’s first collection of stories was huge for both of us.”

“And when did you meet Corrine?”

“That I remember very clearly. I first saw her at a party my freshman year. She was standing at the top of a staircase in a frat house. That was my first glimpse, looking up at her, a beautiful blonde, smoking a cigarette. I don’t know if I would’ve worked up the courage to talk to her or not, but as I watched her boyfriend came up from behind and she turned to look at him as he reached out to touch her cheek. I had no idea at the time they were going out, but I knew who he was. On the basketball team — a big man on campus. They were up there on Mount Olympus and I was downstairs with the geeks and the drunks. The next semester she was in my Romantic poetry class. I showed off big-time in class. Jeff was in that class, too, but I never talked to him. Hated him. We were competing for dominance.”

“For Corrine’s attention?”

“For everybody’s attention, though I suppose I was especially trying to impress Corrine. And the professor, of course.”

The waitress arrived with Astrid’s drink, sweating in a heavy glass, with a celery stick sprouting from the ice cubes.

“You know what, get me one, too,” he said.

“Belvedere bullshot?”

“Why the hell not?”

“Go for it,” Astrid said.

“I am,” he said, “although I seriously doubt that either one of us can tell the difference between a supposedly top-shelf vodka and the pour from the well. In fact, I know we can’t. The well, just in case you should want to know, is the place underneath the bar where they keep the cheap generic shit; I know this because I was a bartender in Providence when I was making my way through Brown, and the idea that you could possibly taste the difference between Belvedere and the industrial stuff that alkies drink when it’s mixed with tomato juice and Tabasco and horseradish is ludicrous. In fact, I doubt you could taste the difference straight up. The whole point of vodka is that it has no taste. It’s alcohol and water. Period. End of story. The cult of these premium brands is ludicrous, a marketing scam that started when I came of age. We used to think we were so fucking cool specifying Absolut. Me and Jeff, back in 1981, at the Surf Club. Yeah, we were such connoisseurs. Now it’s Ketel One or Belvedere or Grey Goose, but it’s not what’s in the bottle; it’s pure marketing, and whether or not a fucking celebrity gets spotted ordering one or the other.”

“So why’d you order the Belvedere?”

“Because I didn’t want to look cheap.”

“Have I said something to make you angry?”

“No, of course not. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to go off on a rant.”

“You seem to have some major issues with Jeff.”

“Oh, please, don’t give me that shit. You probably weren’t even born when he died, and I’ve had decades to think about this. The only issue I have with Jeff is that he fucking died. That and his being a junkie.”

“Well, those are big issues.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to get all worked up.” At which point the waitress arrived like an angel of mercy with his drink. “God that’s good,” he said after swallowing a third of it. “So where were we?”

“Complaining about vodka.”

“I just realized where I got that riff.”

“What riff?”

“That whole vodka rant. That was actually Jeff’s thing. He used to mock me for specifying Absolut. He’d make a point of ordering Smirnoff or whatever was cheapest. After he died, I stopped drinking premium vodka for years in tribute to Jeff.”

“Oh, wow. That’s kind of cool.”

“You mean it’s cool now that you know Jeff said it.”

“Well, I am writing about him.”

“And I’m grateful, really. A few years ago it made me sad to think that no one was reading him, that there were only a few of us who remembered him.”

“Still, it must be a little weird, the fact that he was — I know not exactly, but still — writing about you. You and him and Corrine.”

“Kind of strange, sure.”

“So I guess what everyone wants to know is about how you edited Youth and Beauty.”

“The same way I edit every book. Sentence by sentence, reading closely, asking questions.”

“But Jeff wasn’t there to answer them.”

“So I answered them the way I thought he would have.”

“I mean, did you edit the book in a way that made you look…better? You and Corrine. I guess the question is — sorry, but you know, it’s out there on the Web and everything — did you leave out unflattering material?”

“That’s a loaded question.”

“Well, it must’ve been tempting. Didn’t you ever think about turning the manuscript over to someone else? How could you possibly be objective?”

The waitress arrived with the burgers, giving Russell an interlude to refine and, eventually, mute his indignation.

“Can I bring you anything else? Mustard, ketchup?”

“Ketchup,” Russell said.

“And I’ll have another bullshot.”

Russell considered the options. “What the hell, bring me a glass of the Rafanelli Zinfandel.”

“I’ll have one, too.”

“You want the bullshot and the Zinfandel?” the waitress asked.

“Why not? It’s almost the weekend.”

Russell was sort of impressed. “One of the things I love about this place,” he said, “is that unlike almost every other New York restaurant that doesn’t call itself a diner, they’ll actually bring a bottle of ketchup to the table.”

“Would it be correct to put ketchup on bull’s balls?” she asked, then giggled fetchingly.

“I think it would be almost mandatory. It certainly couldn’t hurt.”

After the waitress delivered the ketchup, they set about the business of preparing their burgers, Russell putting a careful dollop of ketchup on each side of the bun and, on the top of the patty, a smattering of sautéed onions. Astrid was equally absorbed in her own rituals.

The waitress returned with the drinks, then left.

“We’re about to achieve a new level of intimacy,” Russell said when he had reassembled the dish.

“Really? Right here at the table?”

“To consume a hamburger in front of another person is to shed several layers of formality and dignity.”

“Especially if you lick the other person’s fingers.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever even thought of that.”

“You should try it,” she said, and raised her index finger, shiny with grease, to his lips.

Simultaneously appalled and gratified that she was so blatantly flirting with him, Russell felt it would be unchivalrous to embarrass her and reject what was, after all, a relatively cute and harmless gesture. He leaned forward, opened his mouth and closed his lips around her digit.

“How was it?”

“Needs a little salt,” he said. Was she really coming on to him, or just teasing him?

The conversation died for a time, both taking refuge in eating.

“So, there’s a school of thought that says you censored Jeff’s book.”

“ ‘A school of thought’? Jesus, what are we talking about here? Has Harold Bloom weighed in on this subject, or are we talking about some Red Bull — fueled trolls surfing the Web in the wee hours?”

“It’s just been the subject of a lot of threads.”

“Threads?”

“You know, like online conversations about a particular subject on a site or a board. I’m not, like, saying you did anything wrong. I just want to set the record straight. Plus, I’m curious, what it felt like editing a book that’s partly based on you and your experience. Weren’t you at least tempted to rewrite a little? Clean it up?”

“Of course I was. And sometimes I was angry with Jeff, and sometimes hurt. But he was my friend and he was a very good writer, potentially maybe even a great one, and my first and only duty was to him and his book.”

He remembered wishing he could have changed the past as easily as he might have changed the nuances and even the facts in Jeff’s novel. He always told himself it was fiction, even when bitterly aware how heavily indebted it was to actual events. But he was proud of the fact that he’d improved the novel, though he wasn’t about to brag about that.

“But you must’ve changed certain things.”

“Far fewer than I would have if he’d been alive. I bent over backward not to do what you’re suggesting. It’s one of the lightest edits I’ve ever done, and nothing affected the tone or the story line. You’ve read it — obviously. It’s not as if the Russell-like character comes off as anything like a saint. He’s kind of comically full of himself at times, and clueless at others. And”—he paused, but what the hell—“he gets cuckolded.”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been saying.”

Somehow this didn’t quite track, given her line of inquiry, but he said, “Thank you.”

“What happened to the manuscript?”

“I have it somewhere.” Actually he knew precisely where it was, locked in a file cabinet at home.

“Would you ever consider…I don’t know, showing it to somebody?”

“Do you have anyone in mind?”

“Well, obviously, I’d love to see it. I mean, someday.”

Another interlude of silence set in as they concentrated again on their meals, a trance of caloric surfeit, warmed by the sunlight that bathed their table and spilled halfway across the floor of the room.

“Would you object to my seeing it?”

“I’d consider that a betrayal of trust,” he said. “The editor’s hand should be invisible.”

“The wine is really good,” she said.

“The perfect hamburger wine.”

“Would you think I was really decadent if I asked for another?”

“As a gentleman, I would probably have to join you so as not to make you feel self-conscious.”

He asked her about school, about her classes and her reading. She asked him about New York, publishing and the eighties. He couldn’t help liking her, a beautiful young girl interested in him and the things he loved, full of wine and vodka and admiration for his accomplishments, his worldliness, to the point that she actually seemed to find him sexually attractive. Outside the restaurant, she took his arm and said, “Let’s get a room at the Chelsea Hotel.”

He looked at her, stunned; her impish expression read to him like a challenge, a dare.

He considered it for a moment. The temptation was almost overwhelming. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you suggested that,” Russell said. “Even though I know you didn’t really mean it.”

“I did, actually,” she said, leaning over and kissing him on the lips.

“I’ll live on that for the rest of the year.”

“Let me know about the manuscript,” she said.

—

Later, walking back to the office after putting her in a cab, he felt amazed that he’d been so sensible, proud of himself but also a little sad to think that he might never again experience the incomparable thrill of exploring a foreign body.

This sense of erotic possibility stayed with him throughout the day, and that night, when he got into bed after consuming most of a bottle of Pinot Noir over dinner, the feeling drew him closer to his wife. As she read beside him, he began to kiss her neck and fondle her breasts. At first she ignored him but gradually succumbed.

He couldn’t even remember the last time they’d made love, but now, for the first time in months, he found himself aroused, and worked himself on top of her. “Wait,” she said, reaching into the drawer of the bedside table, fussing with some kind of lubricant that she applied even as he felt himself deflating, reaching for him, guiding him inside. They found their rhythm and he found himself succumbing to this slow, mounting pleasure. As good as it felt, it kept getting better and more insistent. Apparently he’d had just the right amount of wine to loosen his inhibitions and his quotidian anxiety without quite physically disabling him. They had slipped into a mutually satisfactory rhythm that gradually accelerated.

All at once he felt a shortness of breath that became more acute, until he was afraid that he might pass out at any moment, or worse. Even as he gasped for air he continued to thrust his hips; the term death throes came to mind. He was going to die in the saddle, like Nelson Rockefeller. He thought he was coming, but he was going. With a racing heart and a rising sense of despair, he struggled to fill his lungs. He was filled with the dread of his own eventual demise. This is how it would feel as he lost his grip on the world, this breathless dread. Even if he managed to pull back this time, it would come for him again. This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, cheated of the final glory at least of an orgasm…

He tried to tell Corrine that he was in distress, but he was unable to speak, unable to bid farewell to the love of his life; and then, just when he was convinced he would die on top of her, he began to recover his breath and his panic gradually subsided. He faked an orgasm with several violent hip thrusts accompanied by a series of moans before rolling off of her, his anxiety subsiding to an almost manageable level, leaving him with a residue of dread, his relief tempered with a hopeless sense that he had just caught a glimpse of oblivion.