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for
a
while
I
had
kept
an
eye
on
her
to
see
if
she
was
going
to
rake
out
a
pair
of
contact
lenses
,
but
apparently
the
color
was
true
.
I
wanted
to
make
love
to
her
.
My
wife
was
at
home
,
maybe
alive
,
more
probably
dead
,
alone
either
way
,
and
I
loved
her
;
I
wanted
to
get
Billy
and
me
back
to
her
more
than
anything
,
but
I
also
wanted
to
screw
this
lady
named
Amanda
Dumfries
.
I
tried
to
tell
myself
it
was
just
the
situation
we
were
in
,
and
maybe
it
was
,
but
that
did
n't
change
the
wanting
.
I
dozed
in
and
out
,
then
jerked
awake
more
fully
around
three
.
Amanda
had
shifted
into
a
sort
of
fetal
position
,
her
knees
pulled
up
toward
her
chest
,
hands
clasped
between
her
thighs
.
She
seemed
to
be
sleeping
deeply
.
Her
sweatshirt
had
pulled
up
slightly
on
one
side
,
showing
clean
white
skin
.
I
looked
at
it
and
began
to
get
an
extremely
useless
and
uncomfortable
erection
.
I
tried
to
divert
my
mind
to
a
new
track
and
got
thinking
about
how
I
had
wanted
to
paint
Brent
Norton
yesterday
.
No
,
nothing
as
important
as
a
painting
,
but
...
just
sit
him
on
a
log
with
my
beer
in
his
hand
and
sketch
his
sweaty
,
tired
face
and
the
two
wings
of
his
carefully
processed
hair
sticking
up
untidily
in
the
back
.
It
could
have
been
a
good
picture
.
It
took
me
twenty
years
of
living
with
my
father
to
accept
the
idea
that
being
good
could
be
good
enough
.
You
know
what
talent
is
?
The
curse
of
expectation
.
As
a
kid
you
have
to
deal
with
that
,
beat
it
somehow
.
If
you
can
write
,
you
think
God
put
you
on
earth
to
blow
Shakespeare
away
.
Or
if
you
can
paint
,
maybe
you
think
-
I
did
-
that
God
put
you
on
earth
to
blow
your
father
away
.
It
turned
out
I
was
n't
as
good
as
he
was
.
I
kept
trying
to
be
for
longer
than
I
should
have
,
maybe
.
I
had
a
show
in
New
York
and
it
did
poorly
-
the
art
critics
beat
me
over
the
head
with
my
father
.
A
year
later
I
was
supporting
myself
and
Steff
with
the
commercial
stuff
.
She
was
pregnant
and
I
sat
down
and
talked
to
myself
about
it
.
The
result
of
that
conversation
was
a
belief
that
serious
art
was
always
going
to
be
a
hobby
for
me
,
no
more
.
I
did
Golden
Girl
Shampoo
ads-the
one
where
the
Girl
is
standing
astride
her
bike
,
the
one
where
she
's
playing
Frisbee
on
the
beach
,
the
one
where
she
's
standing
on
the
balcony
of
her
apartment
with
a
drink
in
her
hand
.
I
've
done
short-story
illustrations
for
most
of
the
big
slicks
,
but
I
broke
into
that
field
doing
fast
illustrations
for
the
stories
in
the
sleazier
men
's
magazines
.
I
've
done
some
movie
posters
.
The
money
comes
in
.
We
keep
our
heads
nicely
above
water
.
I
had
one
final
show
in
Bridgton
,
just
last
summer
.
I
showed
nine
canvases
that
I
had
painted
in
five
years
,
and
I
sold
six
of
them
.
The
one
I
absolutely
would
not
sell
showed
the
Federal
market
,
by
some
queer
coincidence
.
The
perspective
was
from
the
far
end
of
the
parking
lot
.
In
my
picture
,
the
parking
lot
was
empty
except
for
a
line
of
Campbell
's
Beans
and
Franks
cans
,
each
one
larger
than
the
last
as
they
marched
toward
the
viewer
's
eye
.
The
last
one
appeared
to
be
about
eight
feet
tall
.
The
picture
was
titled
Beans
and
False
Perspective
.
A
man
from
California
who
was
a
top
exec
in
some
company
that
makes
tennis
balls
and
rackets
and
who
knows
what
other
sports
equipment
seemed
to
want
that
picture
very
badly
,
and
would
not
take
no
for
an
answer
in
spite
of
the
NFS
card
tucked
into
the
bottom
left-hand
corner
of
the
spare
wooden
frame
.
He
began
at
six
hundred
dollars
and
worked
his
way
up
to
four
thousand
.
He
said
he
wanted
it
for
his
study
.
I
would
not
let
him
have
it
,
and
he
went
away
sorely
puzzled
.
Even
so
,
he
did
n't
give
up
;
he
left
his
card
in
case
I
changed
my
mind
.
I
could
have
used
the
money-that
was
the
year
we
put
the
addition
on
the
house
and
bought
the
four-wheeldrive-but
I
just
could
n't
sell
it
.
I
could
n't
sell
it
because
I
felt
it
was
the
best
painting
I
had
ever
done
and
I
wanted
it
to
look
at
after
someone
would
ask
me
,
with
totally
unconscious
cruelty
,
when
I
was
going
to
do
something
serious
.
