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THEN it was all over, all, all over. No passion about it. Coolness. Sheets. Deep shadow and a flat colorless taste. Then knives. Pain. Now, pain gone, winter gone, slim spire of the Methodist church rising above the Camino. And it is spring.

No sound. Stark, clean quiet. Pain gone. Heart quiet. Clear thoughts.

I am me, Ken reminded himself. On the dressing table a cool, tall glass of orange juice, sweet to the mouth. He sipped, ice between his teeth; and smiled.

The bed still fresh. His own bed, white enameled, brass knobs. Shorter than he had thought. The dresser gone. A new table, wheeled close to the bed.

Comfort. That was it. And release. No passion. No desires. Time passing noiselessly. Distantly a motor car. The wistaria blooming. The old oak slow to green. Unchanged the lawn, pebbles sparse in the drive-way. Beyond the sycamore, bees probably buzzing about its trunk as in the old days; the huge, gray stone trough for horses still standing unchanged.

Six months in bed. Tomorrow he would rise. Months that slowly, slowly passed.

At first tortured, maddened, stabbed by physical pain, then by the gnawing of inner desire. Hours under opiates, vague fleeting hours, visits, friends, flowers, messages.

None from Howard. Who was Howard? Who was this