Tuesday Morning

黎明前一小时罗伯特.金凯驱车经过约翰逊的信箱，嚼一口银河牌口香糖，咬几口苹果，把咖啡杯放在座位上夹在两腿中间的座位上，不让它翻倒。当他走过时，他抬头望望那幢矗立在朦胧将灭的月色中的白房子，对男人，某些男人，大多数男人的愚蠢，摇了摇头。他们至少可以喝点白兰地，出去的时候不要砰地关上纱门。

弗朗西丝卡听见那辆走调的小卡车开过去。她躺在床上，这是她第一次裸睡。她能想象出金凯的样子，头发在车窗里飘动，一只手放在方向盘上，另一只手拿着一只骆驼牌香烟。

Robert Kincaid drove past Johnson's mailbox an hour before dawn, alternately chewing on a Milky Way and taking bites from an apple, squeezing the  coffee cup on the seat  between his thighs to keep it from tipping over. He looked up at the white house standing in thin, late moonlight as he passed and shook his head at the stupidity of men, some men, most men. They could at least drink the brandy and not bang the screen door on their way out.

Francesca heard the out-of-tune pickup go by. She lay there in bed, having slept naked for the first time as far back as she could remember.She could imagineKincaid, hair blowing in the window, one hand on the wheel, the other holding a Camel.