Dorothy B. Hughes

He finished his drink. 'I don__ like mornings either,' he said. __hat__ why I__ a writer.

I was born when he kissed me, I died when he left me, I lived a few weeks while he loved me

He scraped through the dark sand to the center house, two stories, both pouring bands of light into the fog. There was warmth and gaiety within, through the downstairs window he could see young people gathered around a piano, their singing mocking the forces abroad on this cruel night. She was there, proptected by happiness and song and the good. He was separated from her only by a sand yard and a dark fence, by a lighted window and by her protectors. He stood there until he was trembling with pity and rage. Then he fled, but his flight was slow as the flight in a dream, impeded by the deep sand and the blurring hands of the fog. He fled from the goodness of that home, and his hatred for Laurel throttled his brain. If she had come back to him, he would not be shut out, an outcast in a strange, cold world.

There were no passing cars to call out to. You couldn__ call for help from a police car, anyway; he didn__ think you could.

I was born when you kissed me. I died when you left me. I lived a few weeks while you loved me.