Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks, 1942 by Joyce Carol Oates

The th ree men are fu l ly c lothed, long s leeves, 1 even hats , though i t ’s indoors, and br ight ly l i t , and there’s a woman. The woman is wear ing a short -s leeved red dress cut to expose her arms, a curve o f her creamy chest ; she’s contemplat ing 5 a c igaret te in her r ight hand, th ink ing tha t her companion has f inal l y le f t h is wi fe but can she t rust h im? Her heavy- l idded eyes, pouty l ips t icked mouth, she has the redhead’s t rue pal lor l ike sk im mi lk , damned good- look ing 10 and she guesses she knows i t but what exact ly has i t got ten her so far , and where?—he’ l l s tar t to feel gui l ty in a few days, she knows the s igns, and actual smel l , sweaty, ranc id, l ike d i r ty socks; he’ l l s l ip away to make te lephone ca l ls 15 and she swears she isn ’ t going to go through tha t again, isn ’ t going to b reak down cry ing or begging nor is she going to scream at h im, she’s f in ished wi th a l l that . And he’s s i lent bes ide her, not the k ind to ta lk much but he’s th ink ing 20 thank God he made the r ight move a t last , he’s a l i t t l e dazed l ike a man in a d ream— i s th is a d ream?—so much that ’s wide, s t i l l , mute, hor izonta l , and the counterman in whi te, s tooped as he is and unmoving except to s ip 25 h is cof fee; but he’s feel ing pret ty good, i t ’s pr imar i ly re l ie f , th is t ime he’s sure as hel l going to make i t work, he owes i t to her and to h imse l f , Chr is t ’s sake. And she’s th ink ing the l ight in th is p lace is too br ight , p robably 30 not very f la t te r ing, she hates i t when her l i ps t ick wears of f and her makeup gets caked, she’d l ike to use a ladies ’ room but there isn ’ t one here and Jesus how long before a gas s tat ion opens?— i t ’s the middle of the n ight and she has a feel ing 35 t ime is never going to budge. This t ime though she isn ’ t going to demean hersel f— he s tar ts in about h is wi fe, h is k ids, how he let them down, they t rusted h im and he let

them down, she’ l l s lam out of the goddamned room 40 and i f he cal ls her Sugar or Baby in that voice , running h is hands over her l ike he has the r ight , she’ l l s lap h is face hard, You know I hate that : Stop! And he’ l l s top. He’d bet ter . The angr ie r she gets the s t i l le r she i s , hasn’ t sa id a word 45 for the past ten minutes, not a s t rand of her hai r s t i rs , and i t smel ls a l i t t le l ike ashes or l ike the henna she uses to br ighten i t , but the smel l is fa int o r anyway, crazy for her l ike he is , he doesn’ t not ice, or mind— 50 bury ing h is hot face in her neck, between her cool breasts , or her legs—wherever she’ l l have h im, and whenever. She’s s t i l l contemplat ing the c igaret te burning in her hand, the counterman is s t i l l s tooped gaping 55 at her , and he doesn’ t m ind that , why not , as long as she doesn’ t l ook back, in fact he’s th ink ing he’s the luck iest man in the wor ld so why isn ’ t he happier?

Nighthawks, Edward Hopper, 1942. Art Institute of Chicago