I won’t miss anything but you and the girls. I never liked cities or my work or anything except you three.
I won’t miss a thing except perhaps the change in the weather, and a glass of ice water when it’s hot, and I might miss sleeping.
How can we sit here and talk this way?
Because there’s nothing else to do.
That’s it, of course; for if there were, we’d be doing it. I suppose this is the first time in the history of the world that everyone has known just what they were going to do during the night.
Go to a show, listen to the radio, watch television, play cards, put the children to bed, go to bed themselves, like always.
I wonder what everyone else will do now, this evening, for the next few hours.
Maybe it’s because it was never October 19, 1969, ever before in history, because it’s the year when things are as they are all over the world and that’s why it’s the end.
Why do you suppose it’s tonight? Why not some other night in the last century, or five centuries ago, or ten?
At eight-thirty the girls were put to bed and the little lights by their beds turned on and the door left open just a trifle.
That’s part of the reason why.
There are bombers on their schedules both ways across the ocean tonight that’ll never see land.
They sat and read the papers and talked and listened to some radio music and then sat together by the fireplace watching the charcoal embers as the clock struck ten-thirty and eleven and eleven- thirty.