dot dot is dead

I was on the bus reading Graham Greene, The End of the Affair. I set the book in my lap to ponder its narrative: love, hate, jealousy, etc.

A girl two rows behind taps me on the shoulder, asking to see my book. She finished it a month ago and wanted to re-read the ending. She said the book really took grasp at half way.

I loved it from the start. I read fifty pages. Both men are contemptible—the husband and the jealous lover!

I hate when a great book ends. I suppose if the husband was smart he'd play like the wife.