和电影明星一起旅行（英文故事）

Traveling with a movie star

Twice I have sat next to a famous man on an airplane. The first man was Jason Kidd, of the New Jersey Nets. I asked him why he didn’t fly first class, and he said that it was because his cousin worked for United.

“Wouldn’t that be all the more reason to get first class?”

“It’s cool,” he said, unfurling his legs into the aisle.

I let it go, because what do I know about the ins and outs of being a sports celebrity? We didn’t talk for the rest of the flight.

I can’t say the name of the second famous person, but I will tell you that he is a Hollywood heartthrob who is married to a starlet. Also, he has the letter “V” in his first name. That’s all—I can’t say anything more than that. Think espionage. O.K., the end—that really is all. I’ll call him Roy Spivey, which is almost an anagram of his name.

If I were a more self-assured person I would not have volunteered to give up my seat on an overcrowded flight, would not have been upgraded to first class, would not have been seated beside him. This was my reward for being a pushover. He slept for the first hour, and it was startling to see such a famous face look so vulnerable and empty. He had the window seat and I had the aisle, and I felt as though I were watching over him, protecting him from the bright lights and the paparazzi. Sleep, little spy, sleep. He’s actually not little, but we’re all children when we sleep. For this reason, I always let men see me asleep early on in a relationship. It makes them realize that even though I am five feet eleven I am fragile and need to be taken care of. A man who can see the weakness of a giant knows that he is a man indeed. Soon, small women make him feel almost fey—and, lo, he now has a thing for tall women.

Roy Spivey shifted in his seat, waking. I quickly shut my own eyes, and then slowly opened them, as if I, too, had been sleeping. Oh, but he hadn’t quite opened his yet. I shut mine again and right away opened them, slowly, and he opened his, slowly, and our eyes met, and it seemed as if we had woken from a single sleep, from the dream of our entire lives. Me, a tall but otherwise undistinguished woman; he a distinguished spy, but not really, just an actor, but not really, just a man, maybe even just a boy. That’s the other way that my height can work on men, the more common way: I become their mother.

We talked ceaselessly for the next two hours, having the conversation that is specifically about everything. He told me intimate details about his wife, the beautiful Ms. M. Who would have guessed that she was so troubled?

“Oh, yeah, everything in the tabloids is true.”

“It is?”

“Yeah, especially about her eating disorder.”

“But the affairs?”

“No, not the affairs, of course not. You can’t believe the ‘bloids.

‘” Bloids”?

“We call them ’bloid. Or tabs.”

When the meals were served, it felt as if we were eating breakfast in bed together, and when I got up to use the bathroom he joked, “You’re leaving me!”

And I said, “I’ll be back!”

As I walked up the aisle, many of the passengers stared at me, especially the women. Word had travelled fast in this tiny flying village. Perhaps there were even some ’bloid writers on the flight. There were definitely some ’bloid readers. Had we been talking loudly? It seemed to me that we were whispering. I looked in the mirror while I was peeing and wondered if I was the plainest person he had ever talked to. I took off my blouse and tried to wash under my arms, which isn’t really possible in such a small bathroom. I tossed handfuls of water toward my armpits and they landed on my skirt. It was made from the kind of fabric that turns much darker when it is wet. This was a real situation I had got myself into. I acted quickly, taking off my skirt and soaking the whole thing in the sink, then wringing it out and putting it back on. I smoothed it out with my hands. There. It was all a shade darker now. I walked back down the aisle, being careful not to touch anyone with my dark skirt.

When Roy Spivey saw me, he shouted, “You came back!”

And I laughed and he said, “What happened to your skirt?”

I sat down and explained the whole thing, starting with the armpits. He listened quietly until I was done.

“So were you able to wash your armpits in the end?”

“No.”

“Are they smelly?”

“I think so.”

“I can smell them and tell you.”

“No.”

“It’s O.K. It’s part of showbiz.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Here.”

He leaned over and pressed his nose against my shirt.

“It’s smelly.”

“Oh. Well, I tried to wash it.”

But he was standing up now, climbing past me to the aisle and rummaging around in the overhead bin. He fell back into his seat dramatically, holding a pump bottle.

“It’s Febreze.”

“Oh, I’ve heard about that.”

“It dries in seconds, taking odor with it. Lift up your arms.”

I lifted my arms, and with great focus he pumped three hard sprays under each sleeve.

“It’s best if you keep your arms out until it dries.”

I held them out. One arm extended into the aisle and the other arm crossed his chest, my hand pressing against the window. It was suddenly obvious how tall I was. Only a very tall woman could shoulder such a wingspan. He stared at my arm in front of his chest for a moment, then he growled and bit it. Then he laughed. I laughed, too, but I did not know what this was, this biting of my arm.

“What was that?”

“That means I like you!”

“O.K.”

“Do you want to bite me?”

“No.”

“You don’t like me?”

“No, I do.”

“Is it because I’m famous?”

“No.”

“Just because I’m famous doesn’t mean I don’t need what everyone else needs. Here, bite me anywhere. Bite my shoulder.”

He slid back his jacket, unbuttoned the first four buttons on his shirt, and pulled it back, exposing a large, tanned shoulder. I leaned over and very quickly bit it lightly, and then picked up my SkyMall catalogue and began reading. After a minute, he rebuttoned himself and slowly picked up his copy of SkyMall. We read like this for a good half hour.

During this time I was careful not to think about my life. My life was far below us, in an orangey-pink stucco apartment building. It seemed as though I might never have to return to it now. The salt of his shoulder buzzed on the tip of my tongue. I might never again stand in the middle of the living room and wonder what to do next. I sometimes stood there for up to two hours, unable to generate enough momentum to eat, to go out, to clean, to sleep. It seemed unlikely that someone who had just bitten and been bitten by a celebrity would have this kind of problem.

I read about vacuum cleaners designed to suck insects out of the air. I studied self-heating towel racks, and fake rocks that could hide a key. We were beginning our descent. We adjusted our seat backs and tray tables. Roy Spivey suddenly turned to me and said, “Hey.”

“Hey”, I said.

“Hey, I had an amazing time with you.”

“I did, too.”

“I’m going to write down a number, and I want you to guard it with your life.”

“O.K.”

“This phone number falls into the wrong hands and I’ll have to get someone to change it, and that is a big headache.”

“O.K.”

He wrote the number on a page from the SkyMall catalogue and ripped it out and pressed it into my palm.

“This is my kids’ nanny’s personal line. The only people who call her on this line are her boyfriend and her son. So she’ll always answer it. You’ll always get through. And she’ll know where I am.”

I looked at the number.

“It’s missing a digit.”

“I know. I want you to just memorize the last number, O.K?”

“O.K.”

“It’s four.”

We turned our faces to the front of the plane, and Roy Spivey gently took my hand. I was still holding the paper with the number, so he held it with me. I felt warm and simple. Nothing bad could ever happen to me while I was holding hands with him, and when he let go I would have the number that ended in four. I’d wanted a number like this my whole life. The plane landed gracefully, like an easily drawn line. He helped me pull my carry-on bag down from the bin; it looked obscenely familiar.

“My people are going to be waiting for me out there, so I won’t be able to say goodbye properly.”

“I know. That’s all right.”

“No, it really isn’t. It’s a travesty.”

“But I understand.”

“O.K., here’s what I’m going to do. Just before I leave the airport, I’m going to come up to you and say, ‘Do you work here?” ’

“It’s O.K. I really do understand.”

“No, this is important to me. I’ll say, ‘Do you work here?’ And then you say your part.”

“What’s my part?”

“You say, ‘No. “’

“O.K.”

“And I’ll know what you mean. We’ll know the secret meaning.”

“O.K.”

We looked into each other’s eyes in a way that said that nothing else mattered as much as us. I asked myself if I would kill my parents to save his life, a question I had been posing since I was fifteen. The answer always used to be yes. But in time all those boys had faded away and my parents were still there. I was now less and less willing to kill them for anyone; in fact, I worried for their health. In this case, however, I had to say yes. Yes, I would.

We walked down the tunnel between the plane and real life, and then, without so much as a look in my direction, he glided away from me.

I tried not to look for him in the baggage-claim area. He would find me before he left. I went to the bathroom. I claimed my bag. I drank from the water fountain. I watched children hit each other. Finally, I let my eyes crawl over everyone. They were all not him, every single one of them. But they all knew his name. Those who were talented at drawing could have drawn him from memory, and everyone else could certainly have described him, if they’d had to, say, to a blind person—the blind being the only people who wouldn’t know what he looked like. And even the blind would have known his wife’s name, and a few of them would have known the name of the boutique where his wife had bought a lavender tank top and matching boy shorts. Roy Spivey was both nowhere to be found and everywhere. Someone tapped me on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, do you work here?”

It was him. Except that it wasn’t him, because there was no voice in his eyes; his eyes were mute. He was acting. I said my line.

“No.”

A pretty young airport attendant appeared beside me.

“I work here. I can help you”, she said enthusiastically.

He paused for a fraction of a second and then said, “Great”. I waited to see what he would come up with, but the attendant glared at me, as if I were rubbernecking, and then rolled her eyes at him, as if she were protecting him from people like me. I wanted to yell, “It was a code! It had a secret meaning!” But I knew how this would look, so I moved along.

That evening, I found myself standing in the middle of my living-room floor. I had made dinner and eaten it, and then I had an idea that I might clean the house. But halfway to the broom I stopped on a whim, flirting with the emptiness in the center of the room. I wanted to see if I could start again. But, of course, I knew what the answer would be. The longer I stood there, the longer I had to stand there. It was intricate and exponential. I looked like I was doing nothing, but really I was as busy as a physicist or a politician. I was strategizing my next move. That my next move was always not to move didn’t make it any easier.

I let go of the idea of cleaning and just hoped that I would get to bed at a reasonable hour. I thought of Roy Spivey in bed with Ms. M. And then I remembered the number. I took it out of my pocket. He had written it across a picture of pink curtains. They were made out of a fabric that was originally designed for the space shuttle; they changed density in reaction to fluctuations of light and heat. I mouthed all the numbers and then said the missing one out loud: “Four.” It felt risky and illicit. I yelled, “FOUR!” And moved easily into the bedroom. I put on my nightgown, brushed my teeth, and went to bed.

Over the course of my life, I’ve used the number many times. Not the telephone number, just the four. When I first met my husband, I used to whisper “four” while we had intercourse, because it was so painful. Then I learned about a tiny operation that I could have to enlarge myself. I whispered “four” when my dad died of lung cancer. When my daughter got into trouble doing God knows what in Mexico City, I said “four” to myself as I gave her my credit-card number over the phone. Which was confusing—thinking one number and saying another. My husband jokes about my lucky number, but I’ve never told him about Roy. You shouldn’t underestimate a man’s capacity for feeling threatened. You don’t have to be a great beauty for men to come to blows over you. At my high-school reunion, I pointed out a teacher I’d once had a crush on, and by the end of the night this teacher and my husband were wrestling in a hotel parking garage. My husband said that it was about issues of race, but I knew. Some things are best left unsaid.

This morning, I was cleaning out my jewelry box when I came upon a little slip of paper with pink curtains on it. I thought I had lost it long ago, but, no, there it was, folded underneath a dried-up carnation and some impractically heavy bracelets. I hadn’t whispered “four” in years. The idea of luck made me feel a little weary now, like Christmas when you’re not in the mood.

I stood by the window and studied Roy Spivey’s handwriting in the light. He was older now—we all were—but he was still working. He had his own TV show. He wasn’t a spy anymore; he played the father of twelve rascally kids. It occurred to me now that I had missed the point entirely. He had wanted me to call him. I looked out the window: my husband was in the driveway, vacuuming out the car. I sat on the bed with the number in my lap and the phone in my hands. I dialled all the digits, including the invisible one that had shepherded me through my adult life. It was no longer in service. Of course it wasn’t. It was preposterous for me to have thought that it would still be his nanny’s private line. Roy Spivey’s children had long since grown up. The nanny was probably working for someone else, or maybe she’d done well for herself—put herself through nursing school or business school. Good for her. I looked down at the number and felt a tidal swell of loss. It was too late. I had waited too long.

I listened to the sound of my husband beating the car mats on the sidewalk. Our ancient cat pressed against my legs, wanting food. But I couldn’t seem to stand up. Minutes passed, almost an hour. Now it was starting to get dark. My husband was downstairs making a drink and I was about to stand up. Crickets were chirping in the yard and I was about to stand up.

我有两次在飞机上坐在名人旁边。第一个人是新泽西网队的贾森·基德。我问他为什么不坐头等舱，他说是因为他的表弟在联合航空工作。

“那不就更有理由坐头等舱了吗?”

“这很酷，”他说，把腿伸到过道里。

我放弃了，因为我不知道作为一个体育名人的所有细节?我们在飞机上没说过话。

我不能说出第二个名人的名字，但我可以告诉你，他是好莱坞的万人迷，娶了一个小明星。而且，他的名字里有字母“V”。就这些了——我不能再多说什么了。认为间谍活动。好了，结束了，这就是一切。我叫他罗伊·斯皮维，几乎是他名字的变形词。

如果我是一个更自信的人，我就不会自愿在拥挤的航班上放弃座位，就不会被升级到头等舱，就不会坐在他旁边。这是我软弱的回报。他睡了一个小时，看到这么有名的一张脸看上去如此脆弱和空虚，真叫人吃惊。他坐的是靠窗的座位，我坐的是靠过道的座位，我觉得我好像在看着他，保护他不受强光和狗仔队的伤害。睡吧，小间谍，睡吧。他其实不小了，但我们睡觉的时候都是孩子。因此，在恋爱初期，我总是让男人看到我睡着了。这让他们意识到，即使我身高5英尺11英寸，我也很脆弱，需要被照顾。一个能看到巨人弱点的人，知道他是一个真正的人。很快，小个子女人让他感觉很恶心——瞧，他现在对高个子女人有了好感。

罗伊·斯皮维醒过来，在座位上动了动身子。我很快地闭上眼睛，然后慢慢地睁开，好像我也睡着了。但他还没完全打开他的。我又把我的眼睛闭上，然后马上慢慢地睁开，他也慢慢地睁开他的眼睛，我们的眼睛相遇了，就好像我们从一个单独的睡眠中，从我们一生的梦想中醒来。我，一个身材高大但在其他方面并不出众的女人;他是个杰出的间谍，但不是真的，只是个演员，也不是真的，只是个男人，甚至可能只是个男孩。这是我的身高对男人产生影响的另一种方式，更常见的方式:我成为他们的母亲。

在接下来的两个小时里，我们不停地聊着，聊着什么都聊。他告诉我他妻子的私密细节，漂亮的m女士。谁会想到她有这么多麻烦?

“哦，是的，小报上说的都是真的。”

“这是什么?”

“是的，尤其是关于她的饮食失调。”

“但是事务?”

“不，不是风流韵事，当然不是。你不会相信这些血的。

“Bloids”?

“我们叫他们‘bloid’。或选项卡。”

饭菜端上来的时候，感觉就像我们在床上一起吃早餐。当我起身去上厕所时，他开玩笑说:“你要离开我了!”

我说，“我会回来的!”

当我走过通道时，许多乘客盯着我看，尤其是女性。在这个小小的飞行村庄里，消息传得很快。也许飞机上还有一些血腥作家。肯定有一些“血色读者”。我们一直在大声说话吗?我觉得我们在窃窃私语。我在小便的时候看着镜子，心想我是不是他见过的最丑的人。我脱下上衣，试着在腋下洗，在这么小的浴室里，这是不可能的。我往腋窝扔了几把水，水落在了我的裙子上。它是由一种织物制成的，当它变湿时颜色会变深。这是我自己陷入的真实情况。我迅速行动，脱下我的裙子，把它全泡在水槽里，然后拧干再穿上。我用手把它弄平了。在那里。现在一切都暗了一点。我沿着过道往回走，小心翼翼地不让我的黑裙子碰到任何人。

当罗伊·斯皮维看到我时，他喊道:“你回来了!”

我笑了，他说:“你的裙子怎么了?”

我坐下来解释了整件事，从胳肢窝开始。他静静地听着，直到我说完。

“那你最后能洗腋窝了吗?”

“没有。”

“他们是臭吗?”

“我想是的。”

“我能闻到它们，然后告诉你。”

“没有。”

“没关系，这是娱乐圈的一部分。”

“真的吗?”

“是的。在这里。”

他俯下身来，把鼻子贴在我的衬衫上。

“这是臭的。”

“哦。嗯，我试着把它洗了。”

但他现在已经站起来了，爬过我身边的过道，在头顶的行李架里翻来翻去。他戏剧性地倒在座位上，手里拿着一个泵瓶。

“这是Febreze。”

“哦，我听说过。”

“它会在几秒钟内变干，并带走气味。举起胳膊来。”

我抬起胳膊，他全神贯注地在每个袖子下面用力喷了三下。

“你最好把手伸出来，等它干了再说。”

我拿出来了。一只手臂伸入

“那是什么?”

“这意味着我喜欢你!”

“O.K.”

“你想咬我吗?”

“没有。”

“你不喜欢我?”

“不,我做的。”

“是因为我出名了吗?”

“没有。”

“我出名并不意味着我不需要别人需要的东西。来，随便咬我哪一口。咬我的肩膀。”

他把夹克往后推，解开衬衫的前四颗扣子，把它往后拉，露出一个晒黑了的大肩膀。我俯下身，很快地轻轻咬了一口，然后拿起我的购物目录开始阅读。过了一分钟，他反驳了自己，慢慢地拿起他的那本《购物天堂》。我们这样读了足足半个小时。

在这段时间里，我小心翼翼地不去想我的生活。我的生活远低于我们，在一幢橘红色粉刷的公寓楼里。现在看来，我似乎再也不用回到那里去了。他肩膀上的盐在我舌尖上嗡嗡作响。我可能再也不会站在客厅中间想着下一步该做什么了。我有时在那里站两个小时，没有足够的动力吃饭、出去、打扫、睡觉。一个刚刚被名人咬过又被名人咬过的人似乎不太可能会有这种问题。

我读过一篇文章，说吸尘器是用来吸走空气中的昆虫的。我研究了自动加热毛巾架，还有可以藏钥匙的假石头。我们开始下降。我们调整了座椅靠背和小桌板。罗伊·斯皮维突然转向我说:“嘿。”

“嗨,”我说。

"我和你在一起很开心"

“我也是。”

“我要写下一个数字，我要你用生命守护它。”

“O.K.”

“这个电话号码落到了别人的手里，我得找人把它换掉，这才是最头疼的事。”

“O.K.”

他把这个号码写在购物中心目录的一页上，然后把它撕下来，压在我的手掌上。

“这是我孩子的保姆的私人台词。打电话给她的只有她男朋友和她儿子。所以她总是会接的。你总会挺过去的。她会知道我在哪里。”

我看了看数字。

“少了一位。”

“我知道。我要你们记住最后一个数字，好吗?”

“O.K.”

“这是四个。”

我们把脸转向飞机前部，罗伊·斯皮维轻轻地握着我的手。我还拿着那张有号码的纸，所以他也拿着。我感到温暖和简单。当我牵着他的手的时候，就不会有什么不好的事情发生在我身上，当他松开手的时候，我就会得到一个以4结尾的数字。我这辈子都想要这样的号码。飞机优雅地降落，就像一条很容易画出来的线。他帮我把随身行李从垃圾箱里拿下来;它看起来面熟得令人恶心。

“我的人会在那里等着我，所以我不能恰当地说再见。”

“我知道。没关系。”

“不，确实不是。这是一个滑稽。”

“但我明白了。”

“O.K.，这是我要做的。在我离开机场之前，我会问你，‘你在这里工作吗?“‘

“没关系，我真的理解。”

“不，这对我很重要。我会说，‘你在这里工作吗?’然后你说出你的台词。”

“我是什么?”

“你说,“不。“‘

“O.K.”

我就明白你的意思了。我们会知道它的秘密的。”

“O.K.”

我们看着对方的眼睛，那眼神告诉我们，没有什么比我们更重要。我问自己，我会不会为了救他而杀了我的父母，这个问题我从十五岁起就一直在问自己。答案总是肯定的。但随着时间的推移，那些男孩都消失了，我的父母还在那里。我现在越来越不愿意为任何人而杀他们;事实上，我担心他们的健康。然而，在这种情况下，我不得不说是。是的,我会的。

我们沿着飞机和现实生活之间的隧道走下去，然后，他连看都不看我一眼，就从我身边溜开了。

我尽量不在行李提取处找他。他会在离开前找到我的。我去了洗手间。我拿了我的包。我喝了饮水机里的水。我看着孩子们互相殴打。最后，我让我的眼睛爬过每个人。他们都不是他，每一个人都是。但他们都知道他的名字。那些有绘画天赋的人可以凭记忆画出他，其他人当然也可以描述他，如果他们有必要的话，比如说，对一个盲人——盲人是唯一不知道他长什么样的人。就连盲人也知道他妻子的名字，其中有几个人还知道他妻子买了一件淡紫色背心和配套的男孩短裤的那家精品店的名字。罗伊·斯皮维不见踪影，到处都是。有人拍了拍我的肩膀。

“打扰一下，你在这里工作吗?”

这是他。除了那不是他，因为他的眼睛里没有声音;他的眼睛是沉默的。他是表演。我说了我的台词。

“没有。”

一位年轻漂亮的机场服务员出现在我身边。

“我在这里工作。我可以帮你。”她热情地说。

他停顿了片刻，然后说:“太好了。”我等着看他会说出什么来，但服务员瞪着我，好像我在看热闹，然后她的眼睛对他翻了翻，好像她在保护他不受像我这样的人的伤害。我想大喊:“那是个密码!”它有一个秘密的含义!”但我知道这看起来会怎样，所以我继续。

那天晚上，我发现自己站在客厅的地板中央。我做了晚饭吃了，然后我有一个主意，我可以打扫房子。但是在去扫把的半路上，我突然停了下来，与房间中央的空虚调情。我想看看能不能重新开始。但是，当然，我知道答案是什么。我在那儿站得越久，就得站得越久。它错综复杂，呈指数增长。我看起来好像什么都没做，但实际上我和一个物理学家或政治家一样忙。我在制定下一步行动。我的下一步总是不动，但这并没有让事情变得更容易。

我放弃了打扫的想法，只希望能在一个合理的时间上床睡觉。我想起了罗伊·斯皮维和m女士在床上的情景。然后我想起了电话号码。我从口袋里拿出来了。他把它写在一幅粉色窗帘上。它们是由一种最初为航天飞机设计的织物制成的;它们根据光和热的波动来改变密度。我用嘴说出了所有的数字，然后大声说出了缺少的那一个:“四。”这感觉既危险又不正当。我喊道:“四个!”很容易就搬进了卧室。我穿上睡衣，刷了牙，就上床睡觉了。

在我的一生中，我用过很多次这个号码。不是电话号码，只有4。当我第一次遇见我丈夫的时候，我习惯在性交时低声说“四”，因为那太痛苦了。后来我了解到一个小手术，我可以扩大自己。我爸爸死于肺癌的时候我低声说了"四"当我的女儿在墨西哥城不知做了什么惹上麻烦时，我在电话里告诉她我的信用卡号码时，对自己说了“4”。这很让人困惑——想一个数字，说另一个数字。我丈夫拿我的幸运数字开玩笑，但我从未告诉他罗伊的事。你不应该低估一个人感受威胁的能力。你不必是一个大美人，男人就会来攻击你。在高中同学聚会上，我向他指出了我曾经暗恋过的一位老师，而那天晚上，这位老师和我的丈夫在一家酒店的停车场里摔跤。我丈夫说这是种族问题，但我知道。有些事情还是不说为妙。

今天早上，我在清理我的首饰盒时，偶然发现了一张上面有粉色窗帘的纸条。我以为我很久以前就把它丢了，但是，不，它就在那儿，折叠在一朵干枯的康乃馨和一些很重的手镯下面。我已经很多年没说过"四年"了。现在一想到运气我就觉得有点疲惫，就像没心情过圣诞节一样。

我站在窗边，在光线下端详着罗伊·斯皮维(Roy Spivey)的笔迹。他现在长大了——我们都是——但他还在工作。他有自己的电视节目。他不再是间谍了;他扮演了十二个淘气孩子的父亲。现在我才意识到，我完全没有抓住要点。他想让我给他打电话。我望向窗外:丈夫正在车道上用吸尘器清扫汽车。我坐在床上，腿上放着电话号码，手里拿着电话。我拨通了所有的数字，包括那个引导我度过成年生活的看不见的数字。它不再服役了。当然不是。我还以为那还是他保姆的私人电话，真是太荒谬了。罗伊·斯皮维(Roy Spivey)的孩子们早已长大成人。这个保姆可能是在为别人工作，或者她自己做得很好——读完了护理学校或商学院。为她好。我低头看了看数字，感到一阵失落的浪潮。太晚了。我等得太久了。

我听着丈夫敲打人行道上汽车坐垫的声音。我们那只年老的猫紧贴着我的腿，想要吃东西。但我似乎站不起来。几分钟过去了，差不多一个小时。现在天开始黑了。我丈夫在楼下调饮料，我正要站起来。蟋蟀在院子里唧唧喳喳，我正要站起来。

*《罗伊·斯皮维》(Roy Spivey)，作者米兰达·朱莉(Miranda July)。