Me? God no, I‘m crapping myself.‘

Me too. Christ . . .‘ He turned suddenly and reached for the cigarettes on the floor by the side of the bed, as if to steady his nerves."Forty years old. Forty. Fucking hell.‘

Smiling  at  his  anxiety,  she  decided  to  make  it  worse. "So  what‘ll  you  be  doing  when you‘re forty?‘

He lit his cigarette thoughtfully. "Well the thing is, Em—‘

―Em‖? Who‘s ―Em‖?‘

People call you Em. I‘ve heard them.‘

Yeah, friends call me Em.‘

So can I call you Em?‘

Go on then, Dex.‘

So  I‘ve  given  this  whole  ―"growing  old"  thing  some  thought  and  I‘ve  come  to  the decision that I‘d like to stay exactly as I am right now.‘

Dexter Mayhew. She peered up at him through her fringe as he leant against the cheap buttoned vinyl headboard and even without her spectacles on it was clear why he might want to stay exactly this way. Eyes closed, the cigarette glued languidly to his lower lip, the dawn light warming the side of his face through the red filter of the curtains, he  had the knack of looking  perpetually  posed  for  a  photograph.  Emma  Morley  thought  "handsome" a  silly, nineteenth-century word, but there really was no other word for it, except perhaps "beautiful". He had one of those faces where you were aware of the bones beneath the skin, as if even his bare skull would be attractive. A fine nose, slightly shiny with grease, and dark skin beneath the eyes that looked almost bruised, a badge of  honour from all the smoking and late nights spent deliberately losing at strip  poker with girls from Bedales. There was something feline about him: eyebrows fine, mouth pouty in a self-conscious way, lips a shade too dark  and full, but dry and chapped now, and rouged with Bulgarian red wine. Gratifyingly his hair was terrible, short at the back and sides, but with an awful little quiff at the front. Whatever gel he used had worn off, and now the quiff looked pert and fluffy, like a silly little hat.

Still with his eyes closed, he exhaled smoke through his nose. Clearly he knew he was being looked at because he tucked one hand beneath his armpit, bunching up his pectorals and  biceps. 

 

“那你在振奋什么？”

 

 

    “我？天哪，没有啊，我在挥霍光阴呢。”

 

 

    “我也一样……”他突然转身，伸手够床边地上的一包烟，似乎是想平复一下情绪。“四十岁。四十。去他妈的。”

 

 

    她笑他的焦灼，决定火上浇油：“好吧，你四十岁的时候会在干什么？”

 

 

    他若有所思地点燃香烟：“哦，这个事儿吧，爱姆……”

 

 

    “爱姆？谁是爱姆？”

 

 

    “大家叫你爱姆的。我听到过。”

 

 

    “是啊，朋友们叫我爱姆。”

 

 

    “那我能这么叫你吗？”

 

 

    “好吧，德克斯。”

 

 

    “所有同成长、老去相关的问题，我思考后得出的结论都是，我乐意维持眼下的状态。”

 

 

    德克斯特·梅休。她透过自己刘海的缝隙窥视着他，只见他脑袋向后一靠，倚上了廉价的塑料床头板；不戴眼镜她都能瞧出来他多么乐于维持现状—闭着眼睛，嘴里松松叼着的烟贴着下唇，一侧脸颊被隔着红窗帘透进来的淡淡晨曦抹上一层暖色。他熟谙摆姿势的要领，似乎随时都能供人拍摄。爱玛·莫利一向认为“英俊”是十九世纪的无聊词语，然而若要形容他，又实在找不出更贴切的词了，再不然，或许可以称他为“俊美”吧—面颊的轮廓能让人感觉出皮下的骨架，似乎单那副头骨就叫人羡爱。精致的鼻子上皮脂泛着微光，眼眶下的皮肤颜色暗沉，像是有淤伤，其实是抽烟熬夜打牌又故意输给女生的荣誉标志。他的模样带着些猫科动物的特征：眉毛浓密，双唇饱满、不自然地撅着，唇色暗淡，干涩而皲裂，又因保加利亚红酒留下的痕迹而殷红点点。令人窃喜的是，那发型很不像样：后面和两侧剃得很短，额前却蓄着难看的一小绺—看不出用了何种发胶，总之早就失效，因而这一绺蓬松而突兀，像顶滑稽的帽子。

     他依旧闭着双眼，鼻孔里喷出烟雾。他显然知道自己正被盯着看，因为他刻意把一只手掖在另一侧腋窝下，隆起了胸肌和肱二头肌。