Michael Malone - Weebly

extraordinary, so discontinuous with the life of Winslow
Abernathy, that he attached to it no personal meaning—
except that he still ducked in a sweat at the sight of lowflying
planes. But Saturday at 5:00 A.M. he thought of it
again, for life, after simply leaping the last thirty years
forward, had flung him through air again out to that
same precarious clarity suspended over chaos. He was
too old for it, he told himself, lying awake at 5:00 A.M.,
exhausted and unquiet. But in fact, even young, he'd
had no desire to live life at the peak—more than one
social event a weekend depleted his small store of
extroversion. How long could he keep holding on now
as loud debris flew past and waves snatched up at him?
How long could he see without his glasses?
Beanie had left minutes, hours, years ago? Lance
hurt, the girl's death, fire, when? And the rest?
Last night. Abernathy thought back again to where
he had brought Lance twenty-four hours earlier, the
fluorescent corridor of the hospital emergency entrance
glowing an evil absinthe green.
Where everything was clean but looked dirty.
People, mostly poor, lethargic on benches, some with