Jasper Gwyn didn’t arrive the next day, either. Rebecca felt the hours pass exasperatingly slowly. She was sure he would appear, but he didn’t, and when she got dressed, exactly at eight, she did it angrily. In the evening, walking along the street, she thought she was a fool, it was only a job, what did it matter to her—but she also tried to remember if she had read anything strange in him, the last time they had seen each other. She remembered him bent over his pages, nothing else.
The next day she arrived late, on purpose—just a few minutes, but for Jasper Gwyn, she knew, it was an enormity. She went in, and the studio was deserted. Rebecca got undressed but she couldn’t find the cynicism, or the simplicity, not to think of anything; she spent the time measuring her increasing anxiety. She couldn’t do what she was supposed to do—be herself, simply—although she recalled clearly how easy it had seemed, the first day, when he hadn’t shown up. Evidently something must have happened—like a journey. Now there was nowhere to go back to; besides, no path seemed possible without him.
You’re a fool, she thought.
He must be sick. He must be working at home. Maybe he’s finished. Maybe he’s dead.
But she knew it wasn’t true, because Jasper Gwyn was a precise man, even in error.
She lay down on the bed, and for the first time she seemed to have an inkling of fear, being there by herself. She tried to remember if she had locked the door. She wondered if she was sure that three days had passed since she had seen him last. She went through in her memory those three afternoons full of nothing. It seemed to her even worse. Relax, she thought. He’ll arrive, she said to herself. She closed her eyes. She began to caress herself, first her body, slowly, then between her legs. She wasn’t thinking of anything in particular, and that did her good. She turned slightly onto one side, because that was how she liked to do it. She opened her eyes again, in front of her was the door. He’ll open it and I won’t stop, she thought. He doesn’t exist, I exist, and this is what I feel like doing now, dear Jasper Gwyn. I feel like caressing myself. Just come in that door, and then we’ll see what you feel like writing. I’ll keep going, until the end, I don’t care if you look. She closed her eyes again.
At eight she got up, dressed, and went home. She thought that there were ten days left, maybe a few more. She couldn’t understand if it was a little or a lot. It was a tiny eternity.