那时，我的目光恰好落在书柜上，在那里的差距上，那里的九个故事的旧平装本平坦。那东西在哪里？我说。什么事？网格。我的 。她耸了耸肩。我扔了它。扔了吗？在哪里？你是什么意思？在下一刻，我在厨房里，翻转垃圾桶的盖子，却发现它是空的。你是说外面？我大喊。在垃圾箱里？当我回到房间里时，她仍然没有动。耶稣，你在想什么？那是我的。我想要那个。我想保留它。她的嘴唇几乎没有动。这很脏。
(It was then that my gaze happened to fall on the bookcase, on the gap there, where the old paperback of Nine Stories had fallen flat. Where's the thing? I said. What thing? The mesh. My . She shrugged. I tossed it. Tossed it? Where? What do you mean? In the next moment I was in the kitchen, flipping open the lid of the trash can, only to find it empty. You mean outside? I shouted. In the dumpster? When I came thundering back into the room, she still hadn't moved. Jesus, what were you thinking? That was mine. I wanted that. I wanted to keep it. Her lips barely moved. It was dirty.)