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Eight stops She was shifting in her seat and watching the streets “My naht

She raised her hand to the cord

“No,” he thought

THE BUZZER rang She arose as he slowed the bus toward its stop He could co, of course, to this stop He could stand here and wait for her to come by, and say to herand say to her

His face was jerking now, a bit, up toward the mirror, doard the avenue and the moon was very lovely in the trees He knew he could not co

He stopped the bus and she aiting at the door Waiting for him to open it He paused a moment and said, “I—”

She half-turned and looked at hi he had ever thought about at night walking by the sea, in his free time

He pressed the air-release, the door hissed open, she stepped out and alking in the leafy ht

I don’t even know her naht, I never even heard her voice He kept the door open and watched her move off down the dark street I didn’t even see if she was ht

He closed the door and started the bus off and away, very cold now, his hands tre on the wheel, not quite able to see where he was driving After a ain and put down all the s, there was toothis sa his bus too fast, for the avenues were empty and there was only the , hurrying, thinking to himself, if I hurry I’ll reach the sea and if I’m lucky, it all depends, there may be some phosphorescence left, and there’ll be time for a smoke and a walk before I turn the bus around and coh the empty town

THE DEATH OF SO-AND-SO

IN THE ROOM, the deaths came and went They were on all lips, and in every eye Coffee cake went in and down to feed the stos busy with the talk of death Coffee was creaar sweetened the spell of old mortality in the parlor rooer with stories of who and how and ith naures, with conditions and fortitudes, with descriptions of agonies and ht sweats, of sutures and fractures, of comas and trachomas

Mrs Hette lifted her fat well-fed hand with the coffee cake in it like the contents of a steaony of Mr Joseph Lantry, her best friend She widened her ums of her false teeth, faintly ri, her eyes ugly bright, she continued with each detail of Mr Lantry’s death He had spat blood upon the ground He had coughed,a winter storm, vacuous and empty and horrible He had had the red leaf of mortality across his cheeks Her voice went up, up Then, with his death, she fell back in her chair, shaking her head, closing her eyes, not understanding life with her usual I-don’t-understand-life voice Raising her food to her mouth she rained clods and crumbs of earth and coffee cake down upon Mr Lantry’s coffin

“Poor Mr Lantry,” said Mrs Spaulding, across the dim room

“Yes,” said Mr Spaulding