I opened my eyes—having closed them in order to concentrate—and saw that he was crying. Weeping.
“Bullocks, of course,” he said, finally, and lowered the shotgun. “Pure, undiluted bullocks—as stupid and naïve as the young man who wrote it.”
He let the weapon fall to his side. “Ah, well. Such are the things men busy themselves with.” He c****d his head as though thinking of something, as though it were standing right it front of him, whatever it was. “And yet the thing is, I can still remember when I wrote that. Isn’t that the damndest thing? It was in that first shithole apartment in New York, the one in Flatbush, Brooklyn.” He smiled a little, thinking about it. “Susan was there, still young, still beautiful, but had long since fallen asleep. I was wearing comfortable shoes—funny I shou
