Old Ways

He sat on the same chair he had used before and watched her.The old ways, the old ways  coming into him again.He wondered how her hair would feel to his touch, how the curve of her back would fit his hand,how she would feel underneath him.

The old ways struggling against all that is learned,struggling against the propriety drummed in by centries of culture, the hard rules of civilized man. He tried to think of something else, photography or the road or covered bridges. Anything but how she looked just now.

But he failed and wondered again how it would feel to touch her skin, to put his belly against hers. The questions eternal, and always the same. The goddamned old ways,fighting toward  the surface.He pounded them back,pushed them down, lit a camel, and breathed deeply.

She could feel his eyes on her constantly,though his watching was circumspect, never obvious, never intrusive. She knew that he knew brandy had never been pured into those glasses . And with his Irishman's  sense of the tragic, she also knew she felt something about such emptiness. Not pity.That was not what he was about.Sadness ,maybe. She could almost hear his mind forming the words.

他坐在之前坐过的椅子上，看着她。古老的方式，古老的方式又来了。他想知道他触摸她的头发会有什么感觉，她的背部的曲线是否与他的手合拍，她在他身下会是什么感觉。

旧的方式与所有受过的教育相抗争，与千百年来文化所锤炼的行为准则相抗争，与文明人的严格纪律相抗争。他试图想点别的事情，摄影、道路或廊桥。任何事情，除了她刚才的样子。

但他失败了，他又一次想知道触摸她的皮肤，把自己的肚子贴在她的肚子上会是什么感觉。这些问题是永恒的，而且总是同样的。该死的古老的生活方式，奋力朝着水面探头。他把它们打回去，按下去，点上一只骆驼牌香烟，深深地吸了一口气。

她能感觉到他的眼睛不断地注视着她，尽管他的注视是小心翼翼的，从不明显，也从不公然大胆。她知道他知道白兰地从来没有倒进那些杯子里。她也知道，凭借他的爱尔兰人对悲剧的敏感性，他已对这种空虚有某种感觉。不是怜悯。那不是他的风格。也许是悲伤。她几乎能听到他在脑海中形成下面的词句。