She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. “What made you think” he said, abruptly, with the gleam of avidity in his face, “that love makes people happy?” “I know it must. No amount of scrubbing could remove the stains, the blood of an unknown man she had stolen from the scene of a car accident, a stupid drunk with no license who had wrapped his Chevy truck around a very large oak tree. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. “What’s the objection?” “I suppose she ought to know?” said Gwen to her mother, trying to alter the key of the conversation. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set.
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