Julian was dead. She remembered how he had stretched lazily in his chair, unconcernedly, like a large contented cat, how he had laughed and joked and smiled and talked about girls crudely and passionately and adoringly. How he had never expected (why would he) that that day would be The End, the summation of every moment, every thought, his plans and possibilities all strangled, snuffed, that people would cry and moan and sob and he would never see it, would not care, would simply cease, would be put into the earth and there rot. Poor, poor Julian. Never again would he see the sky or smell the overripe flowers, feel the air or watch the street glow with the dim streetlights, never see the red of the sun or of the sea or watch a fish’s gills flicker, scales shimmer, shatter, never hear the crying of children, the slow movement of a woman’s round arm or ankle, never hear the rustle of bags or slow hum of a car passing lazily by at night. He would be eaten by small, burrowing, eyeless creatures and never feel the prick of their round teeth or straining jaws. He was nothing, would remain nothing, and would be remembered dimly by most or slowly forgotten.