MR. CHRISTOPHER

mr. christopher said that he would make the sandwiches himself. for his mother had her work cut out for her. the grandchildren had gone off their hinges; their parents were coming. and then, thought christopher, what a morning -- fresh as if issued to children on a beach. what a lark! what a plunge! for so it had always seemed to him, when, with a little squeak of those shaky hinges, which he could hear now, he had discovered the cucumbers and the cream cheese and plunged at the crust of the bread with the window drawing his senses out into the open air. how fresh, how calm, stiller than this of course, the air was in the early morning; like the flap of a wave; the kiss of a wave; chill and sharp and yet (for a boy of thirty-one as he was then) solemn, feeling as he did, standing there at the open window, that something portentous was about to happen; looking at the kitchen, at the trees outside with the fog winding off them and the squirrels darting, changing direction; standing and looking until his sister said, “musing among the vegetables?” -- was that it? -- “i prefer men to zucchini” -- was that it? she must have said it at breakfast one morning when he had gone out onto the patio -- his sister. she would be back from the boondocks one of these days, next year or the one after, he forgot which, for her letters were awfully cryptic; it was her sayings one remembered; her eyes, her stilettos, her smile, her grumpiness and, when millions of things had utterly vanished -- how strange it was! -- a few sayings like this about zucchini.

and a picnic, off season, tea sandwiches, cake and sparkling wine. he was tipsy before they got there, and all the better for the color of the light, under which, for the fact of what the morning had given way to, the belatedness appeared well worth the wait.

what is this terror? what is this ecstasy? he thought to himself. what is it that fills me with extraordinary excitement? it is i, he said. for there he was.