Ficstructor
“I am here. I am here.” “Yes, Jack, yes you are. Come sit next to me.” “No.” “Yes.” “No,” he said and he was about to put his boots back on. Then he did not, and so waited thinking about the wonderful warm beer he drank with the Tuscan out on the hunting reserve. She left the bed, still in her silk nightgown, and went to the table to pour Jack a drink. She brought it to him. “I know how you like your liqours. Drink this. It will be good for you. Will you stay if I give you this?” She offered the drink, but did not hand it to him. He took the drink. It was very fine scotch. “I will not stay. You know me well. OK, I will stay but only because I am already here and you know me so well.” She walked back to the bed, and the way she walked pulled at Jack with strength that was not physical. It was something else. Jack stood near her and thought about his boots. “Sit next to me,” she said. “No,” he said. “I like to drink while I stand. I can see the sun setting over Bennhadou while I stand. It is—,” he finished his scotch, which was from a good year, and he looked at her green eyes, “quite beautiful at dusk.” 62 64