"Murphy, Pat - Departure" - читать интересную книгу автора (Murphy Pat)

dark-haired man who talked in a low voice about art and life. "There are people
who live on the surface of life, never seeing beyond the illusions of daily
existence. Then there are some who see past the sham. Those are the people who
see the truth in my work."

He leaned close as he spoke and let his hand rest softly, as if by accident, on
her bare shoulder. She nodded. He seemed to be saying exactly what she had
wanted to tell Marsha. She was considering telling him about the wolves when
Dennis interrupted the conversation.

"Jan?" Dennis said. "I didn't expect to see you here. I almost didn't recognize
you."

She studied him for a moment. His eyes looked bleary and his shirt needed
ironing. His voice was too loud, and she guessed that the glass of wine in his
hand was not his first. She smiled without warmth and introduced him to the
artist as her ex-husband. The artist did not remove his hand from her shoulder.

"I've been trying to call you," Dennis said. "Seems like you're never home."

She shrugged. She did not tell him that she was often home. In the last week,
she had chosen to stop answering the phone. She preferred to let it ring while
she gazed out the window into the night.

"Dennis!" Marsha's voice cut through the babble of conversation. She was bearing
down on them, intent on rescuing Jan from an awkward situation. "Since when have
you been interested in art?"

Jan listened to their conversation and watched them as she had watched the
falling snow. She was separated from them by a pane of glass. Marsha waved a
hand on which ivory bangles rattled and Jan heard the noise from a great
distance.

In the cab ride home, Marsha said, "Oh, he was eating his heart out. He was.
What do you want to bet you'll be heating from him?"

"Jan?" said Dennis' voice. He had caught her at work, where she had to answer
the phone. "I thought maybe. . .It was good seeing you last night. Would you
like to go out to dinner sometime? I'd like to talk."

"Talk?" Her voice felt rough and unused. She had not slept the night before, and
that morning, when she dressed for work, her clothes had felt strange against
her skin.

Dennis was saying something. ". . .know you must think I'm a jerk, but I miss
you. I don't know. When I saw you last night, I guess I realized . . . ."

He went on and she stared at the blank wall of her cubicle, thinking of nothing.

"How about tonight?" he asked. "I could meet you after work."