What is it with you and the dark? she asked. Turn a light on. That lamp. Turn it on, she said. You sit here. Awake. You sit in silence. Come back to bed, she told him. This is not good for you. Sitting out here. Letting your mind wander. That’s how bad things happen.

Did you ever read Salinger? he asked. His short stories?

No. I don’t read.

You should.

I watch TV. Movies mostly. I didn’t bring you here to talk about that. She moved closer. Placed her hands on his shoulders and straddled his legs.

There’s one. Something about suicide. A man on vacation with his wife kills himself. Right there in the hotel room.

That’s dreadful. Why are you telling me about this?

I don’t know. It’s called The Perfect  Day For Bananafish. It makes you think.

About what?

Society. America. War and its effects on soldiers. Commercialism.

I see.

Yeah. Salinger lived by himself in New Hampshire all those years. Everybody knows him as the guy who wrote The Catcher in the Rye.

Right, she stood up. Come to bed.

Give me a minute.

Don’t be too long.

He sat there. Thinking of Bananafish. Not saying a word. Just being in solace.

Are you coming to bed or what?

I think I’ll what.

You can get dressed and leave if you’re going to be like this. I didn’t bring you here to discuss books.

Yes. I know that.

He stood up and walked over to the window and opened it. Looked down on 8th Avenue. Lights. Cars. Smells of trash and food. Music. A blaring of music. People below.

He jumped.