by Louis Simpson
I got out of bed, dressed, and put on my socks and boots . . . carefully, for my feet hurt. Then I wrote myself a pass and made my way to the outer door. The corporal on duty looked at the piece of paper and looked at me, then he waved me through. A decent corporal.
I must have limped for miles, making a round of the bars. For years after the war I would dream I was walking in Paris in streets that were growing dark. I had to be back by nightfall. Just one more street, one more bar, before I’d have to go.
Previous selections Browse editions Newer Selections