No Longer Human ( PDFDrive )

74
bothering to eat, she invariably would visit my room,
carrying in her hand a writing pad and a pen.
"Excuse me. It's so noisy downstairs with my
sister and my little brother that I can't collect my
thoughts enough to write a letter." She would seat
herself at my desk and write, sometimes for over an
hour.
It would have been so much simpler if I just lay
there and pretended not to be aware of her, but the
girl's looks betrayed only too plainly that she wanted
me to talk, and though I had not the least desire to
utter a word, I would display my usual spirit of
passive service: I would turn over on my belly with
a grunt and, puffing on a cigarette, begin, "I'm told
that some men heat their bath water by burning
the love letters they get from women."
"How horrid! It must be you."
"As a matter of fact, I have boiled milk that way
—and drunk it too."
"What an honor for the girl! Use mine next
time!"
If only she would go, quickly. Letter, indeed!
What a transparent pretext that was. I'm sure she
was writing the alphabet or the days of the week and
the months.
"Show me what you've written," I said, although
I wanted desperately to avoid looking at it.