Fiction 118 p o r t l a n d monthly magazine PATIENCE: Fought him, opposed him, abused him in my drink. MOODY: Forgive me. In what way did– PATIENCE: Betrayed him. MOODY: In what way did he delight? In you. Not in intimate terms, of course. PATIENCE: Gazing. MOODY: Gazing. PATIENCE: Stupidly. MOODY: At you? PATIENCE: At nothing. MOODY: At you. Not nothing. Your beauty. Your– Patience beats her fists on herself and starts pacing. Moody gets to his feet. MOODY: I apologize. I meant only to say that your husband–as you suggested–must have taken great delight. In you. PATIENCE: He did not know me! MOODY: How could he not? He was your husband. PATIENCE: He knew nothing of me! Not as you do. MOODY: Idonot.Iamsorry,MissBoston… thoughwhatlittleIdoknowdoesnotcom- portwiththedarknessyouholdoveryourself. PATIENCE: I am wretched and demonic, as you do know! MOODY: I know you confessed to be so, yet that is not how I find you. She stands in the corner, her back to him. He will open the window shutter and look out through the bars. MOODY: I do myself recall the condition of gazing…when one is all but helpless to look away. PATIENCE: Your Lucy? MOODY: What? No. Though she is hand- some and strong. No, but–No, when I was younger and, oh, not so freighted down with all this. And that. PATIENCE: Who was it, if not your Lucy?