Chuck

It was like when you take ether at the hospital and you begin to float.

You fight and fight, but it's stronger than you are.

I just got back here.

I almost fell outside the door, but I got back.

It angered him a little, for he had been asleep, and if she failed to get back, he wouldn't have known until probably too late.

They swore not to leave the cave hereafter at all, unless absolutely necessary, and then only while the others stood by inside to perform rescue work if need be.

They spent hours talking, wondering, speculating.

They coaxed and wheedled the radio for sounds that would not come.

Commercials and soap operas and five-piece bands became precious by their very absence.

And then, as a writer will, under almost any circumstances, Arthur found his way to the typewriter and began tapping the keys.

Fran said with mock pestilence, My God, you're not going to do a story now.

Darling, you've forgotten, but we don't know if you have any audience left anywhere.

The joke fell flat, perhaps too frightfully true for all they knew to be funny.

Arthur replied seriously.

And he began to bang away at the typewriter.

Darling, I've got an awful headache.

I feel funny.

They talked less now.

A few times Art came upon Fran in the bedroom crying, but she always tried to hide it and found him a smile on short notice.

That's a great sentence.