The Price of Salt

by Patricia Highsmith

Even the pearl at her earlobe looked alive, like a drop of water that a touch might destroy.

Carol was like a secret spreading through her, spreading through this house, too, like a light invisible to everyone but her.

“Remember what you said about physics not applying to people?” “Umm. Vaguely.” “Well, I’m not sure you’re right,” he said as he took a bite. “Take friendships, for instance. I can think of a lot of cases where the two people have nothing in common. I think there’s a definite reason for every friendship just as there’s a reason why certain atoms unite and others don’t—certain missing factors in one, or certain present factors in the other—what do you think? I think friendships are the result of certain needs that can be completely hidden from both people, sometimes hidden forever.”

“I have a secret and very buried need for a cook,” Dannie said, “and a dancing teacher, and someone to remind me to do little things like take my laundry and get haircuts.” “I can’t remember to take my laundry either.” “Oh,” he said sadly. “Then it’s out. And I’d had some hope. I’d had a little feeling of destiny. Because you see what I mean about affinities is true from friendships down to even the accidental glance at someone on the street, there’s always a definite reason somewhere. I think even the poets would agree with me.”

I feel I stand in a desert with my hands outstretched, and you are raining down upon me.

Was life, were human relations like this always, Therese wondered. Never solid ground underfoot. Always like gravel, a little yielding, noisy so the whole world could hear, so one always listened, too, for the loud, harsh step of the intruder’s foot.

Happiness was like a green vine spreading through her, stretching fine tendrils, bearing flowers through her flesh. She had a vision of a pale-white flower, shimmering as if seen in darkness, or through water. Why did people talk of heaven, she wondered.

fresh barrage of wind hurled the rain like a million bullets against the hood and windshield, and for a moment they could have heard nothing else. There was no thunder, as if the thunder, somewhere up above, modestly refrained from competing with this other god of rain.

How was it possible to be afraid and in love, Therese thought. The two things did not go together. How was it possible to be afraid, when the two of them grew stronger together every day? And every night. Every night was different, and every morning. Together they possessed a miracle.

Or to live against one’s grain, that is degeneration by definition.