Archive for the '25 Years Old' Category

Twenty-Five Year Old – Tom Ripley


Mr Greenleaf smiled bravely. ‘Can’t I offer you a drink, Mr Ripley?’ he asked when the waiter came with his Scotch and soda.

Tom wanted to leave. But he hated to leave the man sitting alone with his fresh drink. ‘Thanks, I think I will,’ he said, and handed the waiter his glass.

‘Charley Schriever told me you were in the insurance business,’ Mr Greenleaf said pleasantly.

‘That was a little while ago. I –’ But he didn’t want to say he was working for the Department of Internal Revenue, not now. ‘I’m in the accounting department of an advertising agency at the moment.’


Neither said anything for a minute. Mr Greenleaf’s eyes were fixed on him with a pathetic, hungry expression. What on earth could he say? Tom was sorry he had accepted the drink. ‘How old is Dickie now, by the way?’ he asked.

‘He’s twenty-five.’

So am I, Tom thought. Dickie was probably having the time of his life over there. An income, a house, a boat. Why should he want to come home? Dickie’s face was becoming clearer in his memory: he had a big smile, blondish hair with crisp waves in it, a happy-go-lucky face. Dickie was lucky. What was he himself doing at twenty-five? Living from week to week. No bank account. Dodging cops now for the first time in his life. He had a talent for mathematics. Why in hell didn’t they pay him for it, somewhere? Tom realized that all his muscles had tensed, that the matchcover in his fingers was mashed sideways, nearly flat. He was bored, God-damned bloody bored, bored, bored! He wanted to be back at the bar, by himself.

Patricia Highsmith, The Talented Mr. Ripley

Published in: 25 Years Old | on February 20th, 2010 | No Comments »

Twenty-Five Year Old – Shelley Domer


Shelley stood awkwardly in front of him, beginning to look happy and a little scared. She never had known what to do about greeting people. If she had been one of the girls he had dated after her, she would have come tripping up and shrieked, “For goodness sake!” and kissed him loudly on the mouth even if she didn’t remember his name. But not Shelley. Shelley stood straight before him, with her hands pleating little bunches of her skirt at the sides, and smiled at him.

“Mom said she saw you sweeping the front porch,” he said. “I’m home for a little vacation. I thought I’d stop by and see how you were getting on.”

“Oh, well, I’m fine. Just seems funny to see you, I think…”

She moved over almost soundlessly to shut the door behind him, and he turned to watch her. There were little changes in her; he could see that even under the dim light in the hallway. Her hair, which used to hang almost to her shoulders in such straight blond ribbons that it had made him think of corn syrup was bunched scratchily behind her head now and held there by a few pins, much like Gram’s bun. Her face was prettier and more clearly defined, but she still gave the impression of a waifish kind of thinness that made her seem more like fifteen than twenty-five. Partly it was because she was pale and without make-up, and her eyes were such a light blue; partly it was because she was wearing old clothes that must have been her mother’s and were far too big for her. The skirt was a dingy pink, accordion-pleated and very long; the sweater was an old bulky maroon one that somehow made her shoulders blades stick out more in back than her breasts did in front. But she still moved the same way – almost frightenedly and without a sound, and always in slow motion. Now she slowly opened her hands at her sides, as if she was consciously telling herself to relax, and looked down at her clothes.

Anne Tyler, If Morning Ever Comes 

Published in: 25 Years Old | on February 20th, 2010 | No Comments »