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T·克拉格森·博伊尔（T. Coraghessan Boyle），出生于1948年，在位于纽约东南部的皮克斯基尔市长大；1968年，获得纽约州立大学波茨坦分校的历史学士学位；1974年和1977年，获得艾奥瓦大学作家工坊的艺术学硕士及博士学位。自20世纪70年代以来，他出版了14部长篇小说和100多部短篇小说。博伊尔一生揽获众多奖项，其中最值得一提的便是1988年凭借长篇小说《世界的尽头》斩获福克纳奖，小说回顾了纽约市近300年来的历史。博伊尔有大半的作品都在探究婴儿潮时代的美国，当时的美国社会风气偏向于个人价值的体现和个人幸福的实现，因此他们身上有着不同程度的不负责任、冷漠和物质主义等特点。于是，博伊尔的作品中往往都会有一个努力而徒劳的男主人公和一个被赞扬的反英雄式人物，文风夹杂着犀利的讽刺、幽默和现实主义。
本篇《卫星上的夜》，故事借由公路上的一个偶发事件展开，从而引出了每个人物的性格特点：多一事不如少一事的男主人公，感性善良又强势的女主人公，公路上求助的公主病小姐，极其吊儿郎当的事件始作俑者……作者曾在与读者的交流中说，这部短篇小说其实是在讲述建立和维持一段和谐恋爱关系的艰难，其实小说开头公路上的偶发事件就是对男女主人公之间关系危机的影射。幸福的背后本就是一个血池炼狱，此话当真不假，不然已经步入“夕阳红”之列的博伊尔也不会仍觉得维系之道不易。有何不易？大家一起来文章中感受吧……
What we were arguing about that night—and it was late， very late， 3：10 A.M. by my watch—was something that had happened nearly twelve hours earlier. A small thing， really， but by this time it had grown out of all proportion and poisoned everything we said， as if we didn’t have enough problems already. Mallory was relentless. And I was feeling defensive and maybe more than a little 1）paranoid. We were both drunk. I could smell the nighttime stink of the river. I looked up and watched the sky expand overhead and then shrink down to fit me like a safety helmet. A truck went blatting by on the interstate， and then it was silent， but for the mosquitoes singing their blood song， while the rest of the insect world screeched either in protest or accord. I couldn’t tell which， thrumming and thrumming， until the night felt as if it were going to burst open and leave us shattered in the grass. “You asshole，” she snarled. “You’re the asshole，” I said. “I hate you.” “2）Ditto，” I said. “Ditto and square it.”
The new day had begun peaceably enough， a Saturday， the two of us curled up and 3）sleeping late， the shades drawn and the air-conditioner doing its job. If it hadn’t been for the dog， we might have slept right on into the afternoon， because we’d been up late the night before， at a club called Gabe’s， where we’d danced， with the assistance of well rum and two little white pills Mallory’s friend Mona had given her， until we sweated through our clothes， and the muscles of our 4）calves—my calves， anyway—felt as if they’d been surgically removed， and sewn back in place. But the dog， Nome—a husky， one blue eye， one brown—kept laying the wedge of his head on my side of the bed and emitting a series of insistent whines， because his 5）bladder was bursting and it was high time for his morning run. My eyes flashed open， and， despite the dog’s needs and the first stirrings of a headache， I got up with a feeling that the world was a hospitable place. After using the toilet and splashing some water on my face， I found my shorts on the floor where I’d left them， unfurled the dog’s leash， and took him out the door. The sun was high. After the dog evacuated， I led him down to the corner store， picked up a copy of the newspaper and two coffees to go. Mallory was sitting up waiting for me， still in her nightgown but with her glasses on. She stretched and smiled when I came through the door and murmured something that might have been “Good morning”. I handed her a coffee and the Life section of the newspaper. Time slowed. For the next hour there were no sounds but for a rustle of newsprint and the gentle soughing suck of hot liquid through a small plastic 6）aperture. The plan was to drive out to the farmhouse our friends Chris and Anneliese Wright were renting from the farmer himself and laze away the hours sipping wine. After that， we’d 7）play it by ear. If Chris and Anneliese didn’t have anything else in mind， I was thinking of persuading them to join us at the vegetarian place in town for the falafel plate， and then maybe hit a movie or head back over to Gabe’s until the night melted away. Fine. Perfect. Exactly what you wanted most from a midsummer’s day in the Midwest， after the summer session had ended and you’d put away your books for the three-week 8）respite before the fall semester started up. We didn’t have jobs， not in any real sense—jobs were a myth， a rumor—so we held on in grad school， semester after semester， for lack of anything better to do. We got financial aid， of course， and 9）accrued debt on our student loans. Our car， a hand-me-down from Mallory’s mother， needed tires and probably everything else into the bargain. Sometimes we felt as if we were actually getting somewhere， but the truth was， like most people， we were just marking time.
At any rate， we made some sandwiches， put the dog in the car， and drove through the leafy streets of town， Nome was in the back seat， hanging his head out the window. All was well. But then we turned onto the unmarked blacktop road that led out to Chris and Anneliese’s and saw the car there， a silver 10）Toyota， engine running， stopped in our lane. As we got closer we saw a woman—girl—coming toward us down the center of the road， her face flushed and her eyes wet with what might have been the effects of overwrought emotion or maybe 11）hay fever， which was 12）endemic here， and we saw a man—boy—perched on the hood of the car， shouting abuse at her retreating back. The term “lovers’ quarrel” came into my head at the very moment the girl lifted her face and Mallory yelled， “Stop！” “It’s a lovers’ quarrel，” I said， ever so slightly depressing the accelerator.“Stop！” Mallory repeated， more insistently this time. The guy was watching us， something like an angry smirk on his face. The girl—she was no more than a hundred feet away now—raised her hand as if to flag us down， and I eased up on the gas， thinking that maybe they were in trouble after all， something wrong with the car， the engine overheating， the fuel gauge on empty. It was hot. Grasshoppers flung themselves at the windshield like yellow hail. All you could smell was tar.
The car slowed to a halt and the girl bent to my window. “You need help？” I asked.
“He’s such a jerk，” she said， sucking in her breath. “He’s， he’s”—another breath—“I hate him.”
Mallory leaned over me so the girl could see her face. “Is he your—”
“He’s a jerk，” the girl repeated. She was younger than us， late teens， early twenties. She wore her blond hair in braids and she was dressed in a black tank top， cut-off jeans， and pink 13）Crocs. She threw a look at the guy， who was still perched on the hood of the car， then wiped her nose with the back of her hand and began to cry again.
“That’s right，” he shouted. “Cry. Go ahead. And then you can run back to your mommy and daddy like the little retard you are！” He was blond， too， more of a rusty blond， and he had the makings of a reddish beard creeping up into his sideburns. He was wearing a 14）Banksy T-shirt， the one with the rat in sunglasses on it， and it clung to him as if it had been painted on. You could see that he spent time at the gym. A lot of time.
“Get in the car，” Mallory said. “You can come with us—it’ll be all right.”
“It’s between them，” I said， “It’s none of our business.”
“None of our business？” she shot back at me. “She could be abused or， I don’t know， abducted， you ever think of that？” She strained to look around me， as if the girl should be fixed on the blacktop. “Did he hit you， is that it？”
Another sob， sucked back as quickly as it was released. “No. He’s just a jerk， that’s all.”
“Yeah，” he crowed， sliding down off the hood， “you tell them all about it， because you’re Little Miss Perfect， aren’t you？ You want to see something？ You， I’m talking to you， you in the car.” He raised one arm to show the long red striations there， evidence of what had passed between them. “You want her？ You can have her.”
“Get in，” Mallory said.
The girl shook her head.
“Go ahead， bitch，” the guy called.
“You don’t have to put up with that，” Mallory said， and her voice was honed and hard， the voice she used on me when she was in a mood， when I was talking too much or hadn’t 15）got around to washing the dishes when it was my turn. “Come on， get in.”
“No，” the girl said， stepping back from the car， so that we got a full view of her. Her arms shone with sweat. There were beads of moisture dotting her upper lip. She was pretty， very pretty.
I eased off the brake pedal and the car inched forward even as Mallory said， “Stop， Paul， what are you doing？” and I said， “She doesn’t want to. It’s a lovers’ quarrel， can’t you see that？” 那晚我们一直在争论的——当时很晚了，非常非常晚，我的手表显示凌晨3点10分——是大约12小时前发生的事儿。一件鸡毛蒜皮的事儿，真的，但当下却显得无限扩大，诋毁了我们之前所说的一切，好像我们还烦不够一样。玛洛丽是冷酷无情的。而我则想自我保护，或许还带着一丁点儿妄想偏执。我们都喝高了。我能闻到夜间河水散出的恶臭。我仰起头，望着天空在头顶上膨胀，之后收缩，像顶安全帽似的扣在我头上。一辆卡车在州际公路上呼啸着驶过，之后四周一片寂静，只有蚊子吟唱着它们的“红”歌，其它的昆虫也或抗议、或附和地鸣叫着。我说不清是什么在一直敲打着，直到这夜仿佛将要炸开，剩我们散落在草地上。“你混蛋，”她吼道。“你才是混蛋，”我说。“我恨你。”“我也是，”我说道。“和你一样，平手。”
新的一天开始了，够宁静平和的，一个周六，我们俩蜷缩着睡懒觉，窗帘拉上了，空调一直开着。要不是那只狗，我们能一觉睡到下午，因为前一晚我们熬夜到很晚，在一间叫作加布斯的俱乐部，我们跳舞了，伴着优质朗姆酒和玛洛丽的朋友莫娜给她的两颗白色小药丸的助力，我们一直跳到汗水浸透衣服，我们小腿的肌肉——我的小腿，总之——感觉好像被手术移除了，然后又缝回到适当的位置。但那只狗，诺姆——一只哈士奇，眼睛是一只蓝色，一只棕色的——老是把它那小脑袋靠在我的床边并发出一系列持续不断的呜呜声，因为它的膀胱就要爆炸了，晨跑的时间到了。我的眼睛瞬间睁开，且先不提狗狗的需求和第一波涌起的头痛，我起床了，感觉这世界是个好客之地。上完厕所，往脸上湿了点儿水之后，我找到自己脱在地板上的短裤，松开狗链，带着小狗出门了。日头正毒。狗狗排完便之后，我带着它去了住宅区附近的商店，拿了一份报纸和两杯咖啡回去。玛洛丽正坐着等我，还穿着她的睡衣，不过带上了眼镜。当我嘴里嘟囔着可能是“早上好”之类的话走进门的时候，她伸了伸懒腰笑了。我递给她一杯咖啡和报纸的生活版。时间放慢了。接下来的一个小时里除了翻报纸的沙沙声和透过一个小小塑料孔吮吸热饮的轻轻的嗖嗖声之外，再无其它声响。
我们原计划是驾车去往我们的朋友克里斯和安丽斯·赖特自己从农夫那儿租来的农舍，消磨上几个小时喝喝小酒。在那之后，我们就视情况再定了。如果克里斯和安丽斯并没什么打算，我倒是在想说服他们跟我们一起去镇上吃素食的地方吃个油炸素丸子，之后也许看场电影或者调头去加布斯俱乐部，直到这晚结束。很好。棒极了。这正是你最想从美国中西部仲夏的一天中得到的，夏季学期结束之后，你收好书本，享受秋季学期开学前为时三周的短暂休息。我们没有工作，没有真正意义上的工作——工作是个迷思，一个谣传——所以我们又进了研究生院，一个学期接着一个学期，因为没有好点的事儿可以做。我们拿到了助学金，当然，还有越积越高的助学贷款。我们的车，一辆玛洛丽母亲开过的车，需要换轮胎，可能还需要换掉除轮胎外的其它一切东西。有时我们觉得自己好像真的小有成就，但事实上，和大多数人一样，我们只是在原地踏步。
不管怎样，我们会做些三明治，把狗狗放在车里，然后驶过小镇上绿树成荫的街道，诺姆坐在后座上，把脑袋垂靠窗外。一切都很正常。但是之后我们转到了驶向克里斯和安丽斯家的无标柏油马路上，看到一辆银色的丰田汽车开着发动机停在那儿，挡住了我们的路。当我们离得近点儿的时候，我们看到一个女人——女孩儿——沿着路中心向我们走来，她满脸通红，双眼湿润，可能是情绪失控的表现，也可能是因为这里的风土病枯草热，然后我们看到一个男人——男孩儿——坐在车的引擎盖上，冲着她离开的背影嚷嚷着骂人的话。恰恰在女孩扬起脸庞的时候，玛洛丽吼道：“停车！”那一刻，“情侣吵架”那词儿浮现在我的脑海。“这是情侣在吵架，”我说，些微地踩低了油门。“停车！”玛洛丽这次更坚决地重复道。那家伙望着我们，脸上露出一个仿佛生气的假笑。那女孩儿——现在离我们还不到一百英尺——扬起手，貌似示意我们停下来，我松了油门，想着或许他们遇到麻烦了，车出了毛病，引擎过热或者燃油耗尽。天气很热。蚱蜢像黄色的冰雹一样撞在挡风玻璃上。你只能闻到柏油的味道。
车子慢慢停了下来，女孩儿俯身到我那边的车窗前。
“需要帮忙吗？”我问道。
“他真是个混蛋，”她喘着说道。“他是，他是”——又吸了口气——“我恨他。”
玛洛丽把身子倾到我这边，让女孩儿能看到她的脸。“他是你的——”
“他是个混蛋，”那女孩儿重复道。她比我们小，小青年，二十出头的样子。她扎着金黄色的辫子，穿了件黑色背心，一条裤腿儿剪短的牛仔裤和一双粉红色的卡洛驰鞋子。她瞟了眼仍在车子引擎盖儿上坐着的家伙，然后用手背擦了擦鼻子，又开始哭了。
“行，”他喊道。“哭吧。继续。然后跑回去找你的爸爸妈妈，像傻瓜一样。”他也是金发，偏金棕色，还留着连到鬓角的泛红胡子。他穿了件班克斯T恤，上面有只戴墨镜的老鼠的那款，T恤贴着身，好像画在了他身上。能看得出，他有花时间健身。大把的时间。
“上车，”玛洛丽说。“你可以和我们一起——没事儿的。”
“这是他们之间的事儿，”我说，“跟我们没关系。”
“跟我们没关系？”她反击道。“她也许被虐待或者，我不知道，被诱拐，你想过那些吗？”她探头绕过我往外瞧，好像那女孩竟被钉住在柏油路上一般。“他打你了，是不是？”
又是一阵啜泣，抽气短促。“没有。他就是个混蛋，仅此而已。”
“是的，”他边喊边从引擎盖上滑下来，“你把什么都告诉他们了，因为你是‘完美小姐’，不是么？你想看些什么吗？你，我在和你说话，车里的那个。”他抬起一条手臂给我们看那里又长又红的痕迹，那证明了他们两个之间发生过什么。“你想要她？你可以带她走。”
“上车，”玛洛丽说道。
女孩儿摇了摇头。
“上去啊，贱人，”那家伙叫着。
“你不需要忍受那些，” 玛洛丽说，她的声音沙哑又无情，当她心情不好，当我说话太多或者轮到我洗碗而我没有抽空去做的时候，她就会用这种声音跟我说话。“快点，上车。”
“不，”女孩儿边说边从车旁向后倒退，我们得以览其全貌。她的双臂因汗水晶莹透亮。她上唇冒着小汗珠。她很美，相当好看。
我松开刹车，车子缓缓地前行，尽管玛洛丽说着：“停下，保罗，你在干什么？”而我答道：“她并不想上车，这是恋人在吵架，你看不明白吗？”
本篇《卫星上的夜》，故事借由公路上的一个偶发事件展开，从而引出了每个人物的性格特点：多一事不如少一事的男主人公，感性善良又强势的女主人公，公路上求助的公主病小姐，极其吊儿郎当的事件始作俑者……作者曾在与读者的交流中说，这部短篇小说其实是在讲述建立和维持一段和谐恋爱关系的艰难，其实小说开头公路上的偶发事件就是对男女主人公之间关系危机的影射。幸福的背后本就是一个血池炼狱，此话当真不假，不然已经步入“夕阳红”之列的博伊尔也不会仍觉得维系之道不易。有何不易？大家一起来文章中感受吧……
What we were arguing about that night—and it was late， very late， 3：10 A.M. by my watch—was something that had happened nearly twelve hours earlier. A small thing， really， but by this time it had grown out of all proportion and poisoned everything we said， as if we didn’t have enough problems already. Mallory was relentless. And I was feeling defensive and maybe more than a little 1）paranoid. We were both drunk. I could smell the nighttime stink of the river. I looked up and watched the sky expand overhead and then shrink down to fit me like a safety helmet. A truck went blatting by on the interstate， and then it was silent， but for the mosquitoes singing their blood song， while the rest of the insect world screeched either in protest or accord. I couldn’t tell which， thrumming and thrumming， until the night felt as if it were going to burst open and leave us shattered in the grass. “You asshole，” she snarled. “You’re the asshole，” I said. “I hate you.” “2）Ditto，” I said. “Ditto and square it.”
The new day had begun peaceably enough， a Saturday， the two of us curled up and 3）sleeping late， the shades drawn and the air-conditioner doing its job. If it hadn’t been for the dog， we might have slept right on into the afternoon， because we’d been up late the night before， at a club called Gabe’s， where we’d danced， with the assistance of well rum and two little white pills Mallory’s friend Mona had given her， until we sweated through our clothes， and the muscles of our 4）calves—my calves， anyway—felt as if they’d been surgically removed， and sewn back in place. But the dog， Nome—a husky， one blue eye， one brown—kept laying the wedge of his head on my side of the bed and emitting a series of insistent whines， because his 5）bladder was bursting and it was high time for his morning run. My eyes flashed open， and， despite the dog’s needs and the first stirrings of a headache， I got up with a feeling that the world was a hospitable place. After using the toilet and splashing some water on my face， I found my shorts on the floor where I’d left them， unfurled the dog’s leash， and took him out the door. The sun was high. After the dog evacuated， I led him down to the corner store， picked up a copy of the newspaper and two coffees to go. Mallory was sitting up waiting for me， still in her nightgown but with her glasses on. She stretched and smiled when I came through the door and murmured something that might have been “Good morning”. I handed her a coffee and the Life section of the newspaper. Time slowed. For the next hour there were no sounds but for a rustle of newsprint and the gentle soughing suck of hot liquid through a small plastic 6）aperture. The plan was to drive out to the farmhouse our friends Chris and Anneliese Wright were renting from the farmer himself and laze away the hours sipping wine. After that， we’d 7）play it by ear. If Chris and Anneliese didn’t have anything else in mind， I was thinking of persuading them to join us at the vegetarian place in town for the falafel plate， and then maybe hit a movie or head back over to Gabe’s until the night melted away. Fine. Perfect. Exactly what you wanted most from a midsummer’s day in the Midwest， after the summer session had ended and you’d put away your books for the three-week 8）respite before the fall semester started up. We didn’t have jobs， not in any real sense—jobs were a myth， a rumor—so we held on in grad school， semester after semester， for lack of anything better to do. We got financial aid， of course， and 9）accrued debt on our student loans. Our car， a hand-me-down from Mallory’s mother， needed tires and probably everything else into the bargain. Sometimes we felt as if we were actually getting somewhere， but the truth was， like most people， we were just marking time.
At any rate， we made some sandwiches， put the dog in the car， and drove through the leafy streets of town， Nome was in the back seat， hanging his head out the window. All was well. But then we turned onto the unmarked blacktop road that led out to Chris and Anneliese’s and saw the car there， a silver 10）Toyota， engine running， stopped in our lane. As we got closer we saw a woman—girl—coming toward us down the center of the road， her face flushed and her eyes wet with what might have been the effects of overwrought emotion or maybe 11）hay fever， which was 12）endemic here， and we saw a man—boy—perched on the hood of the car， shouting abuse at her retreating back. The term “lovers’ quarrel” came into my head at the very moment the girl lifted her face and Mallory yelled， “Stop！” “It’s a lovers’ quarrel，” I said， ever so slightly depressing the accelerator.“Stop！” Mallory repeated， more insistently this time. The guy was watching us， something like an angry smirk on his face. The girl—she was no more than a hundred feet away now—raised her hand as if to flag us down， and I eased up on the gas， thinking that maybe they were in trouble after all， something wrong with the car， the engine overheating， the fuel gauge on empty. It was hot. Grasshoppers flung themselves at the windshield like yellow hail. All you could smell was tar.
The car slowed to a halt and the girl bent to my window. “You need help？” I asked.
“He’s such a jerk，” she said， sucking in her breath. “He’s， he’s”—another breath—“I hate him.”
Mallory leaned over me so the girl could see her face. “Is he your—”
“He’s a jerk，” the girl repeated. She was younger than us， late teens， early twenties. She wore her blond hair in braids and she was dressed in a black tank top， cut-off jeans， and pink 13）Crocs. She threw a look at the guy， who was still perched on the hood of the car， then wiped her nose with the back of her hand and began to cry again.
“That’s right，” he shouted. “Cry. Go ahead. And then you can run back to your mommy and daddy like the little retard you are！” He was blond， too， more of a rusty blond， and he had the makings of a reddish beard creeping up into his sideburns. He was wearing a 14）Banksy T-shirt， the one with the rat in sunglasses on it， and it clung to him as if it had been painted on. You could see that he spent time at the gym. A lot of time.
“Get in the car，” Mallory said. “You can come with us—it’ll be all right.”
“It’s between them，” I said， “It’s none of our business.”
“None of our business？” she shot back at me. “She could be abused or， I don’t know， abducted， you ever think of that？” She strained to look around me， as if the girl should be fixed on the blacktop. “Did he hit you， is that it？”
Another sob， sucked back as quickly as it was released. “No. He’s just a jerk， that’s all.”
“Yeah，” he crowed， sliding down off the hood， “you tell them all about it， because you’re Little Miss Perfect， aren’t you？ You want to see something？ You， I’m talking to you， you in the car.” He raised one arm to show the long red striations there， evidence of what had passed between them. “You want her？ You can have her.”
“Get in，” Mallory said.
The girl shook her head.
“Go ahead， bitch，” the guy called.
“You don’t have to put up with that，” Mallory said， and her voice was honed and hard， the voice she used on me when she was in a mood， when I was talking too much or hadn’t 15）got around to washing the dishes when it was my turn. “Come on， get in.”
“No，” the girl said， stepping back from the car， so that we got a full view of her. Her arms shone with sweat. There were beads of moisture dotting her upper lip. She was pretty， very pretty.
I eased off the brake pedal and the car inched forward even as Mallory said， “Stop， Paul， what are you doing？” and I said， “She doesn’t want to. It’s a lovers’ quarrel， can’t you see that？” 那晚我们一直在争论的——当时很晚了，非常非常晚，我的手表显示凌晨3点10分——是大约12小时前发生的事儿。一件鸡毛蒜皮的事儿，真的，但当下却显得无限扩大，诋毁了我们之前所说的一切，好像我们还烦不够一样。玛洛丽是冷酷无情的。而我则想自我保护，或许还带着一丁点儿妄想偏执。我们都喝高了。我能闻到夜间河水散出的恶臭。我仰起头，望着天空在头顶上膨胀，之后收缩，像顶安全帽似的扣在我头上。一辆卡车在州际公路上呼啸着驶过，之后四周一片寂静，只有蚊子吟唱着它们的“红”歌，其它的昆虫也或抗议、或附和地鸣叫着。我说不清是什么在一直敲打着，直到这夜仿佛将要炸开，剩我们散落在草地上。“你混蛋，”她吼道。“你才是混蛋，”我说。“我恨你。”“我也是，”我说道。“和你一样，平手。”
新的一天开始了，够宁静平和的，一个周六，我们俩蜷缩着睡懒觉，窗帘拉上了，空调一直开着。要不是那只狗，我们能一觉睡到下午，因为前一晚我们熬夜到很晚，在一间叫作加布斯的俱乐部，我们跳舞了，伴着优质朗姆酒和玛洛丽的朋友莫娜给她的两颗白色小药丸的助力，我们一直跳到汗水浸透衣服，我们小腿的肌肉——我的小腿，总之——感觉好像被手术移除了，然后又缝回到适当的位置。但那只狗，诺姆——一只哈士奇，眼睛是一只蓝色，一只棕色的——老是把它那小脑袋靠在我的床边并发出一系列持续不断的呜呜声，因为它的膀胱就要爆炸了，晨跑的时间到了。我的眼睛瞬间睁开，且先不提狗狗的需求和第一波涌起的头痛，我起床了，感觉这世界是个好客之地。上完厕所，往脸上湿了点儿水之后，我找到自己脱在地板上的短裤，松开狗链，带着小狗出门了。日头正毒。狗狗排完便之后，我带着它去了住宅区附近的商店，拿了一份报纸和两杯咖啡回去。玛洛丽正坐着等我，还穿着她的睡衣，不过带上了眼镜。当我嘴里嘟囔着可能是“早上好”之类的话走进门的时候，她伸了伸懒腰笑了。我递给她一杯咖啡和报纸的生活版。时间放慢了。接下来的一个小时里除了翻报纸的沙沙声和透过一个小小塑料孔吮吸热饮的轻轻的嗖嗖声之外，再无其它声响。
我们原计划是驾车去往我们的朋友克里斯和安丽斯·赖特自己从农夫那儿租来的农舍，消磨上几个小时喝喝小酒。在那之后，我们就视情况再定了。如果克里斯和安丽斯并没什么打算，我倒是在想说服他们跟我们一起去镇上吃素食的地方吃个油炸素丸子，之后也许看场电影或者调头去加布斯俱乐部，直到这晚结束。很好。棒极了。这正是你最想从美国中西部仲夏的一天中得到的，夏季学期结束之后，你收好书本，享受秋季学期开学前为时三周的短暂休息。我们没有工作，没有真正意义上的工作——工作是个迷思，一个谣传——所以我们又进了研究生院，一个学期接着一个学期，因为没有好点的事儿可以做。我们拿到了助学金，当然，还有越积越高的助学贷款。我们的车，一辆玛洛丽母亲开过的车，需要换轮胎，可能还需要换掉除轮胎外的其它一切东西。有时我们觉得自己好像真的小有成就，但事实上，和大多数人一样，我们只是在原地踏步。
不管怎样，我们会做些三明治，把狗狗放在车里，然后驶过小镇上绿树成荫的街道，诺姆坐在后座上，把脑袋垂靠窗外。一切都很正常。但是之后我们转到了驶向克里斯和安丽斯家的无标柏油马路上，看到一辆银色的丰田汽车开着发动机停在那儿，挡住了我们的路。当我们离得近点儿的时候，我们看到一个女人——女孩儿——沿着路中心向我们走来，她满脸通红，双眼湿润，可能是情绪失控的表现，也可能是因为这里的风土病枯草热，然后我们看到一个男人——男孩儿——坐在车的引擎盖上，冲着她离开的背影嚷嚷着骂人的话。恰恰在女孩扬起脸庞的时候，玛洛丽吼道：“停车！”那一刻，“情侣吵架”那词儿浮现在我的脑海。“这是情侣在吵架，”我说，些微地踩低了油门。“停车！”玛洛丽这次更坚决地重复道。那家伙望着我们，脸上露出一个仿佛生气的假笑。那女孩儿——现在离我们还不到一百英尺——扬起手，貌似示意我们停下来，我松了油门，想着或许他们遇到麻烦了，车出了毛病，引擎过热或者燃油耗尽。天气很热。蚱蜢像黄色的冰雹一样撞在挡风玻璃上。你只能闻到柏油的味道。
车子慢慢停了下来，女孩儿俯身到我那边的车窗前。
“需要帮忙吗？”我问道。
“他真是个混蛋，”她喘着说道。“他是，他是”——又吸了口气——“我恨他。”
玛洛丽把身子倾到我这边，让女孩儿能看到她的脸。“他是你的——”
“他是个混蛋，”那女孩儿重复道。她比我们小，小青年，二十出头的样子。她扎着金黄色的辫子，穿了件黑色背心，一条裤腿儿剪短的牛仔裤和一双粉红色的卡洛驰鞋子。她瞟了眼仍在车子引擎盖儿上坐着的家伙，然后用手背擦了擦鼻子，又开始哭了。
“行，”他喊道。“哭吧。继续。然后跑回去找你的爸爸妈妈，像傻瓜一样。”他也是金发，偏金棕色，还留着连到鬓角的泛红胡子。他穿了件班克斯T恤，上面有只戴墨镜的老鼠的那款，T恤贴着身，好像画在了他身上。能看得出，他有花时间健身。大把的时间。
“上车，”玛洛丽说。“你可以和我们一起——没事儿的。”
“这是他们之间的事儿，”我说，“跟我们没关系。”
“跟我们没关系？”她反击道。“她也许被虐待或者，我不知道，被诱拐，你想过那些吗？”她探头绕过我往外瞧，好像那女孩竟被钉住在柏油路上一般。“他打你了，是不是？”
又是一阵啜泣，抽气短促。“没有。他就是个混蛋，仅此而已。”
“是的，”他边喊边从引擎盖上滑下来，“你把什么都告诉他们了，因为你是‘完美小姐’，不是么？你想看些什么吗？你，我在和你说话，车里的那个。”他抬起一条手臂给我们看那里又长又红的痕迹，那证明了他们两个之间发生过什么。“你想要她？你可以带她走。”
“上车，”玛洛丽说道。
女孩儿摇了摇头。
“上去啊，贱人，”那家伙叫着。
“你不需要忍受那些，” 玛洛丽说，她的声音沙哑又无情，当她心情不好，当我说话太多或者轮到我洗碗而我没有抽空去做的时候，她就会用这种声音跟我说话。“快点，上车。”
“不，”女孩儿边说边从车旁向后倒退，我们得以览其全貌。她的双臂因汗水晶莹透亮。她上唇冒着小汗珠。她很美，相当好看。
我松开刹车，车子缓缓地前行，尽管玛洛丽说着：“停下，保罗，你在干什么？”而我答道：“她并不想上车，这是恋人在吵架，你看不明白吗？”