Page:Levenson - Butterfly Man.djvu/104

102 "I don't like to be photographed," she had said, "some day I'll look at the picture and be sorry I'm still alive."

She seemed very young in the photograph; and very old, lying there in bed.

Ken did not disturb her. He sat in the creaking rocker and listened to her breathing and the ticking of the clock. A dust-laden beam of sunshine shone through the transom above the door. He watched it move slowly, become elongated as it approached the bed.

His mind was clear. He was determined. As she stirred in her sleep, he called her name.

"Anita, wake up," he said. Her lips opened.

"Hm … lover," she whispered. "Oh." She recognized Ken. "What time is it?"

"One o'clock, I guess."

She drew the counterpane over her. "I'm chilly," she said. "What's the idea? Why did you come?"

He sat in the chair next to the bed.

"I hate to have anyone look at me before I put my face on—even you."

She was eternally the coquette. She smiled, then turned to the bottle of rum on the table, poured a half-glassful, drank it.

"Have some, Bud?"

"No."

"It's better than coffee, rum is. Wakes me up like a shot. Say, what's eating you? Broke again?"

"I've got money." He placed his hand, palm downward, on the cool sheet and moved it in a circle.

"I'm leaving," he said suddenly.

"Go ahead. I'll meet you later in the place."

"I mean, I'm leaving Tia Juana."