【时间旅行者的妻子】75

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Clare is going to kill me for this. “I’m a friend of Clare’s parents. They were worried about her taking the car to a party where there might be alcohol, so they asked me to go along and play chauffeur¹ in case she got too pickled to drive.”

　Helen pouts². “That’s extremely not necessary. Our little Clare hardly drinks enough to fill a tiny, tiny thimble—”

　“I never said she did. Her parents were just being paranoid.”

　High heels click down the sidewalk. This time it is Clare. She freezes when she sees that I have company.

　Helen jumps out of the car and says, “Clare! This naughty man says he is not your boyfriend.”

　Clare and I exchange glances. “Well, he’s not,” says Clare curtly³.

　“Oh,” says Helen. “Are you leaving?”

　“It’s almost midnight. I’m about to turn into a pumpkin⁴.” Clare walks around the car and opens her door. “Come on, Henry, let’s go.” She starts the car and flips⁵ on the lights.

　Helen stands stock still in the headlights. Then she walks over to my side of the car. “Not her boyfriend, huh, Henry? You had me going there for a minute, yes you did. Bye bye, Clare.” She laughs, and Clare pulls out of the parking space awkwardly and drives away. Ruth lives on Conger. As we turn onto Broadway, I see that all the street lights are off. Broadway is a two-lane highway. It’s ruler-straight, but without the streetlights it’s like driving into an inkwell.

　“Better turn on your brights, Clare,” I say. She reaches forward and turns the headlights off completely.

　“Clare—!”

　“Don’t tell me what to do!” I shut up. All I can see are the illuminated⁶ numbers of the clock radio. It’s 11:36.I hear the air rushing past the car, the engine of the car; I feel the wheels passing over the asphalt, but somehow we seem to be motionless, and the world moves around us at forty-five miles per hour. I close my eyes. It makes no difference. I open them. My heart is pounding.

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