Chapman thought a minute. “I think I miss the sky,” he said quietly. “The blue sky and the green grass and trees with leaves on them that turn color in the Fall. I think, when I go back, that I’d like to go out in a rain storm and strip and feel the rain on my skin.”
He stopped, feeling embarrassed. Klein’s expression was encouraging. “And then I think I’d like to go downtown and just watch the shoppers on the sidewalks. Or maybe go to a burlesque house and smell the cheap perfume and the popcorn and the people sweating in the dark.”
He studied his hands. “I think what I miss most is people—all kinds of people. Bad people and good people and fat people and thin people, and people I can’t understand. People who wouldn’t know an atom from an artichoke. And people who wouldn’t give a damn.
