Exercise 2 (Anna)

He pulled volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica off the shelf with his index finger. Easy. Extend finger. Crook top joint. Hook on binding edge, tilt, pull. He let them hit him in the chest. Some of them from the upper shelves hit him on his clavicle. He didn't step away from that. He also didn't look down at his feet to see the pile spreading around. He didn't turn his head from side to side or pause for the sound of someone coming to reach him.

By the time he was through the third row (he had finished with the 1976 edition and was about half way in to the 1984 edition), his breathing was in sync with the action. It was a meditation.

When someone came he knew it before he heard it. A minute after he knew it (1984, M) he understood why he knew it: the falling volumes made a different sound on hitting the pile; not a solid thunk; now a kind of slap. She was catching them.

Kneeling on the carpet, her legs askew in in black leggings with the seam down the front; catching each one (slap), shutting it (hush), setting it aside. She never touched him. Her nose was near his calf. She never had time to look up and anticipate the next drop. She caught them by instinct, with her head down.

She was wearing a striped hat and cut-off gloves. After a while (1984, Q) he could smell her shampoo. He started tilting over two volumes at a time (R and S, T and V) and then... When they hit her she didn't make a sound. She exhaled more air, but added no stops with her throat, contracted it to make no pitch, did not hiss. He reached for her hat and pulled it off her head from its peak, pulling some of her hair too. She sighed deeper from her throat. With her hat in his hand he jumped on the pile.

Jumped, with both knees in the air simultaneously, like someone with no weight. One jump made him breathless. He did it again.

While he was in the air she--damn!--reached in with her cut off gloved hand and grabbed volume, volume, volume, from under him. She slid these, shut, off to her left on the crackly white carpet with sick, pusillanimous precision.

He jumped on her. She fell over. He jumped again, and she rolled on her side, hitting her head on the brown padded leather of a binding and knocking it out of line. His heavy shoe hit her side. In spite of himself he slipped back, off-balance, exposing his belly. She took her gloves off and stood up while he lay there. He looked up at her. He could see the swell of her breasts when her arms separated, the pleats of her sleeves. He held himself up on his elbows. He imagined things.

She made no eye contact. Not even with his legs. She bent over and picked up a volume from the pile where it had slid and put it back--out of order--volume, volume, volume, bending over, sliding it in, bending over, sliding the next one in. Her cheeks never even got red.