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n； this…the very fact of our leaving…has told me。 So the precaution is wasted after all。 It's back in our minds again。
Still； it's wiser to go than to stay。
I remember one night it came too quickly； more suddenly than we could have foretold； there was less warning given。 We were not able to get all the way out in time。 We were still only making our way up the aisle； our backs to the screen； when suddenly a shot rang out； and then a voice groaned in accusation； 〃You've…you've killed me。〃
It seemed to me it was his voice； and that he was speaking to us； to one of us。 It seemed to me； in that moment； that every head in the audience turned； to look our way； to stare at us； with that detached curiosity of a great crowd when someone has been pointed out to them。
My legs for a moment seemed to refuse to carry me any further。 I floundered there for a minute as though I were going to fall down helpless upon the carpeted aisle。 I turned to look at him and I saw； unmisakably； that his head had cringed for a moment； was down defensively between his shoulders。 And he always carried it so straight and erect。 A moment later it was straight again； but just for that instant it hadn't been； it had been hunched。
Then； as though sensing that I needed him just then； because； perhaps； he needed me； he put his arm around my waist； and helped me the rest of the way up the aisle that way； steadying me； promising me support rather than actually giving it to me。
In the lobby； both our faces were like chalk。 We didn't look at one another； it was the mirrors on the side told us that。
We never drink。 We know enough not to。 I think we sense that； rather than close the door on awareness； that would only open it all the wider and let full horror in。 But that particular night； I remember； as we came out； he said； 〃Do you want something？〃
He didn't say a drink； just 〃something。〃 But I understood what that 〃something〃 meant。 〃Yes；〃 I shuddered quietly。
We didn't even wait until we got home； it would have taken us too long。 We went in to a place next door to the theatre； and stood up to the bar for a moment； the two of us alike； and gulped down something on the run。 In three minutes we were out of there again。 Then we got in the car and drove home。 And we never said a word the whole way。
It's in the very kiss we give each other。 Somehow we trap it right between our lips； each time。 （Did I kiss him too strongly？ Will he think by that I forgave him； again； just then？ Did I kiss him too weakly？ Will he think by that I was thinking of it； again； just then？）
It's everywhere； it's all the time； it's us。
I don't know what the game was。 I only know its name； they call it life。
I'm not sure how it should be played。 No one ever told me。 No one ever tells anybody。 I only know we must have played it wrong。 We broke some rule or other along the way； and never knew it at the time。
I don't know what the stakes are。 I only know we've forfeited them； they're not for us。
We've lost。 That's all I know。 We've lost； we've lost。
1
The door was closed。 It had a look of pitiless finality about it； as though it would always be closed like this from now on。 As though nothing in the world could ever make it open again。 Doors can express things。 This one did。 It was inert； it was lifeless； it didn't lead anywhere： It was not the beginning of anything； as a door should be。 It was the ending of something。
Above the push…button there was a small oblong rack； of metal； affixed to the woodwork； intended to frame a name card。 It was empty。 The card was gone。
The girl was standing still in front of the door。 Perfectly still。 The way you stand when you've been standing for a long time； so long； you've forgotten about moving； have grown used to not moving。 Her finger was to the push…button； but it wasn't pushing any more。 No pressure was being exerted； no sound came from the battery behind the door…frame。 It was as though she had been holding it that way so long； she had forgotten to take that； too； away。
She was about nineteen。 A dreary； hopeless nineteen； not a bright； shiny one。 Her features were small and well turned； but there was something too pinched about her face； too wan about her coloring； too thin about her cheeks。 Beauty was there； implicit； ready to reclaim her face if it was given the chance； but something had beaten it back； was keeping it hovering at a distance； unable to alight in its intended realization。
Her hair was hazel…colored； and limp and listless； as though no great heed had been paid to it for some time past The heels of her shoes were a little run…down。 A puckered dam in the heel of her stocking peered just over the top of one。 Her clothing was functional； as though it were worn for the sake of covering； and not for the sake of fashion； or even of appeal。 She was a good height for a girl； about five…six or seven。 But she was too thin； except in one place。
Her head was down a little； as though she were tired of carrying it up straight。 Or as though invisible blows had lowered it； one by one。
She moved at last。 At long last Her hand dropped from the pushbutton； as if of its own weight。 It fell to her side； hung there； forlorn。 One foot turned； as if to go away。 There was a wait。 Then the other turned too。 Her back was to the door now。 The door that wouldn't open。 The door that was an epitaph； the door that was finality。
She took a slow step away。 Then another。 Her head was down now more than ever。 She moved slowly away from there； and left the door behind。 Her shadow was the last part of her to go。 It trailed slowly after her； upright against the wall。 Its head was down a little； too； it too was too thin； it too was unwanted。 It stayed on a moment； after she herself was already gone。 Then it slipped off the wall after her； and it was gone too。
Nothing was left there but the door。 That remained silent； obdurate； closed。
2
In the telephone…booth she was motionless again。 As motionless as before。 A telephone pay…station； the door left shunted back in order to obtain air enough to breathe。 When you are in one for more than just a few moments； they bee stifling。 And she had been in this one for more than just a few moments。
She was like a doll propped upright in its gift…box； and with one side of the box left off； to allow the contents to be seen。 A worn doll。 A leftover； marked…down doll； with no bright ribbons or tissue wrappings。 A doll with no donor and no recipient。 A doll no one bothered to claim。
She was silent there； though this was meant to be a place for talking。 She was waiting to hear something； something that never came。 She was holding the receiver pointed toward her ear； and it must have started out by being close to it； at right angles to it； as receivers should be。 But that was a long time before。 With the passage of long； disappointing minutes it had drooped lower and lower； until now it was all the way down at her shoulder； clinging there wilted； defeated； like some sort of ugly； black； hard…rubber orchid worn for corsage。
The anonymous silence became a voice at last。 But not the one she wanted； not the one she was waiting for。
〃I am sorry； but I have already told you。 There is no use waiting on the line。 That number has been discontinued； and there is no further information I can give you。〃
Her hand dropped off her shoulder； carrying the receiver with it； and fell into her lap； dead。 As if to match something else within her that was dead； by the final way it fell and stirred no more。
But life won't grant a decent dignity even to its epitaphs； sometimes。
〃May I have my nickel back？〃 she whispered。 〃Please。 I didn't get my party； and it's…it's the last one I've got。〃
3
She climbed the rooming…house stairs like a puppet dangling from slack strings。 A light bracketed against the wall； drooping upsidedown like a withered tulip in its bell…shaped shade of scalloped glass； cast a smoky yellow glow。 A carpet…strip ground to the semblance of decayed vegetable…matter； all pattern； all color； long erased； adhered to the middle of the stairs； like a form of pollen or fungus encrustation。 The odor matched the visual imagery。 She climbed three ifights of them； and then turned off toward the back。
She stopped； at the last door there was； and took out a longshanked iron key。 Then she looked down at the bottom of the door。 There was a triangle of white down by her foot； protruding from under the seam。 It expanded into an envelope as the door swept back above it。
She reached into the darkness； and traced her hand along the wall beside the door； and a light went on。 It had very little shine。 It had very little to shine on。
She closed the door and then she picked up the envelope。 It had been lying on its face。 She turned it over。 Her hand shook a little。 Her heart did too。
It had on it； in hasty； heedless pencil； only this：
〃HELEN GEORGESSON。〃
No Miss； no Mrs。； no other salutation whatever。
She seemed to e alive more fully。 Some of the blank hopelessness left her eyes。 Some of the pinched strain left her face。 She grasped the envelope tight； until it pleated a little in her hold。 She moved more briskly than she had unti