What We Talk About When We Talk About Love: Stories

hear anything more on the subject. Albert, you're next in line. Now." The barber turned to the fellow with the newspaper. "I don't know you from Adam, mister, but I'd appreciate if you wouldn't put your oar in."
    THE guard got up. He said, "I think I'll come back for my cut later. Right now the company leaves something to be desired."
    The guard went out and pulled the door closed, hard.
    The old fellow sat smoking his cigarette. He looked out the window. He examined something on the back of his hand. He got up and put on his hat.
    "I'm sorry, Bill," the old fellow said. "I can go a few more days."
    "That's all right, Albert," the barber said.
    When the old fellow went out, the barber stepped over to the window to watch him go.
    "Albert's about dead from emphysema," the barber said from the window. "We used to fish together. He taught me salmon inside out. The women. They used to crawl all over that old boy. He's picked up a temper, though. But in all honesty, there was provocation."
    The man with the newspaper couldn't sit still. He was on his feet and moving around, stopping to examine everything, the hat rack, the photos of Bill and his friends, the calendar from the hardware showing scenes for each month of the year. He flipped every page. He even went so far as to stand and scrutinize Bill's barbering license, which was up on the wall in a frame. Then he turned and said, "I'm going too," and out he went just like he said.
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    The Calm
    "Well, do you want me to finish barbering this hair or not?" the barber said to me as if I was the cause of everything.
    THE barber turned me in the chair to face the mirror. He put a hand to either side of my head. He positioned me a last time, and then he brought his head down next to mine.
    We looked into the mirror together, his hands still framing my head.
    I was looking at myself, and he was looking at me too. But if the barber saw something, he didn't offer comment.
    He ran his fingers through my hair. He did it slowly, as if thinking about something else. He ran his fingers through my hair. He did it tenderly, as a lover would.
    That was in Crescent City, California, up near the Oregon border. I left soon after. But today I was thinking of that place, of Crescent City, and of how I was trying out a new life there with my wife, and how, in the barber's chair that morning, I had made up my mind to go. I was thinking today about the calm I felt when I closed my eyes and let the barber's fingers move through my hair, the sweetness of those fingers, the hair already starting to grow.
    Popular Mechanics
    EARLY that day the weather turned and the snow was melting into dirty water. Streaks of it ran down from the little shoulder-high window that faced the backyard. Cars slushed by on the street outside, where it was getting dark. But it was getting dark on the inside too.
    He was in the bedroom pushing clothes into a suitcase when she came to the door.
    I'm glad you're leaving! Pm glad you're leaving! she said. Do you hear?
    He kept on putting his things into the suitcase.
    Son of a bitch! I'm so glad you're leaving! She began to cry. You can't even look me in the face, can you?
    Then she noticed the baby's picture on the bed and picked it up.
    What We Talk About When We Talk About Love
    He looked at her and she wiped her eyes and stared at him before turning and going back to the living room.
    Bring that back, he said.
    Just get your things and get out, she said.
    He did not answer. He fastened the suitcase, put on his coat, looked around the bedroom before turning off the light. Then he went out to the living room.
    She stood in the doorway of the little kitchen, holding the baby.
    I want the baby, he said.
    Are you crazy?
    No, but I want the baby. I'll get someone to come by for his things.
    You're not touching this baby, she said.
    The baby had begun to cry and she uncovered the blanket from around his head.
    Oh, oh, she said, looking at the baby.
    He moved toward her.
    For God's sake! she said. She took a step back into the kitchen.
    I want the baby.
    Get out of here!
    She turned and tried to hold the baby over in a corner behind the stove.
    But he came up. He reached across the stove and tightened his hands on the baby.
    Let go of him, he said.
    Get away, get away! she cried.
    The baby was red-faced and screaming. In the scuffle they knocked down a flowerpot that hung behind the stove.
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    He crowded her into the wall then, trying to break her grip. He