事情是这样的，在学校讲完课后，我和几个朋友坐在麦当劳。一个朋友给我们讲了些笑话，我们一边谈论，一边开怀大笑。
就在这时，几个女孩进来了，她们找位子坐了下来。其中一个，穿着鲜红色上衣，脸上洋溢着甜美的微笑，在众人当中，她显得格外与众不同引人注目。
然后，她们到柜台前点食物时，我才发现她们都有缺陷——不能说话。但我并不认为这是残疾。我走过去，问她的电话号码，当然，她惊讶不已。
虽然她家里没有电话，因为她不能说话，所以没那个必要，但她最终告诉了我地址，还有她的名字——伊莱恩。
几天后，我寄了一封信给她，提出下周六与她约会,我也不知道她会不会接受我的邀请。
我约她在利多影院见面，一起去看电影，我在那儿等了五分钟后，她来了，脸上依旧洋溢着那令我沉醉的甜美的笑容。
电影院放映的是《冰河世纪》，为了方便交流，我需要用到纸和笔。
我问她对我的感觉，她告诉我她很开心，同时又很担心，因为她不知道我对她的爱是出于同情还是发自内心。
从那一刻起，我不断地问自己这个问题，直到一个月后的考试结束了，我才明白，我是真的爱上了她。不是对她残疾的同情，也不是因她的美貌而爱慕，而是我真的爱她我去了她的家里，这令她很吃惊，我à着她，跑到她家门前的一个公园里。我看着她，写下自己当时的感受。她又大又黑的眼睛直直地看着我，慑人心魄。
她拿起笔，写下了这句话，“我也爱你，现在我明白，你爱我，不是出于同情，我不会后悔这个决定。”
现在，我们在一起已经有两年了，尽管还没打算结婚，但我从未跟她吵过架，即使在纸上，而我也绝不会那样做
黄手帕
GoingHome
佚名 / Anonymous
They were going to Florida——three boys and three girls——and when they boarded the bus, they were carrying sandwiches and wine in paper bags, dreaming of golden beaches and sea tides as the gray cold of New York vanished behind them.
As the bus passed through New Jersey, they began to notice Vingo. He sat in front of them, dressed in a plain, ill-fitting suit, never moving, his dusty face masking his age. He chewed the inside of his lip a lot, frozen into some personal cocoon of silence.
Deep into the night, outside Washington, the bus pulled into a Howard Johnson's, and everybody got off except Vingo. He sat rooted in his seat, and the young people began to wonder about him, trying to imagine his life: perhaps he was a sea captain, a runaway form his wife, an old soldier going home. When they went back to the bus, one of the girls sat beside him and introduced herself.
"We're going to Florida," she said brightly, "I hear it's beautiful."
"It is." he said quietly, as if remembering something he had tried to forget.
"Want some wine?" she said. He smiled and took a swig. He thanked her and retreated again into his silence. After a while, she went back to the others, and Vingo nodded in sleep.
In the morning, they awoke outside another Howard Johnson's, and this time Vingo went in. The girl insisted that he join them. He seemed very shy, and ordered black coffee and smoked nervously as the young people chattered about sleeping on beaches. When they returned to the bus, the girl sat with Vingo again, and after a while, slowly and painfully, he told his story. He had been in jail in New York for the past four years, and now he was going home.
"Are you married?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?" she said.
"Well, when I was in the can I wrote to my wife," he said,"I told her that I was going to be away a long time, and that if she couldn't stand it, if the kids kept asking questions, if it hurt too much, well, she could just forget me. I'd understand. Get a new guy, I said—she's a wonderful woman, really something—and forget about me. I told her she didn't have to write me or nothing. And she didn't. Not for three and a half years."
"And you're going home now, not knowing?"
"Yeah," he said shyly, "Well, last week, when I was sure the parole was coming through, I wrote her again. We used to live in Brunswick, just before Jacksonville, and there's a big oak tree just as you come into town. I told her that if she'd take me back, she should put a yellow handkerchief on the tree, and I'd get off and come home. If she didn't want me, forget it—no handkerchief and I'd go on through."
"Wow," the girl said, "Wow."
She told the others, and soon all of them were in it, caught up in the approach of Brunswick, looking at the picture Vingo showed them of his wife and three children—the woman handsome in a plain way, the children still unformed in the cracked, much-handled snapshots.
Now they were 20 miles from Brunswick, and the young people took over window seats on the right side, waiting for the approach of the great oak tree. The bus acquired a dark, hushed mood, full of the silence of absence and lost years. Vingo stopped looking, tightening his face into the ex-con's mask, as if fortifying himself against still another disappointment.
Then Brunswick was ten miles, and then five. Then, suddenly, all of the young people were up out of their seats, screaming and shouting and crying, doing small dances of exultation. All except Vingo.
Vingo sat there stunned, looking at the oak tree. It was covered with yellow handkerchiefs—20 of them, 30 of them, maybe hundreds, a tree that stood like a banner of welcome billowing in the wind. As the young people shouted, the old con rose from his seat and made his way to the front of the bus to go home.
三个男孩和三个女孩打算乘长途汽车去佛罗里达游玩，他们用纸袋带了三明治和葡萄酒，眼前浮现出梦想中的金色沙滩和海浪，昏暗寒冷的纽约城渐渐在他们身后销声匿迹。
当汽车经过新泽西时，他们注意到了温哥。他一动不动地坐在他们前排，身穿简朴而不合时宜的衣服，蓬头垢面，让人简直难以判断出他的真实年龄。他不时地咬着嘴唇，默不做声，似封冻于蚕茧中。
夜幕降临，长途汽车驶至华盛顿郊外，在Howard Johnson饭馆的门口停下了，所有人都起身下车，只有温哥仍坐在那里一动不动，像是扎根在了座位上一样。年轻人都好奇地猜想着他的身世：他或许是名船长，一个抛家弃妻的外乡人，或是一个归家的老兵。当他们回到车上时，其中一个女孩坐到了他身旁，主动搭讪，作了自我介绍。
“我们要去佛罗里达，”她爽朗地说道，“听说那儿是个景色宜人的好地方。”
“没错。”他面无表情地答道，好像这个话题勾起了他想忘却的某些往事。
“来点儿葡萄酒吗？”她说。温哥微笑着接过酒，畅饮起来，谢过女孩，又不做声了。过了一会儿，女孩回到她的同伴中间，温哥低头打起了盹。
早上大家醒来时，车已经开到了另一家Howard Johnson饭馆，这次，温哥跟大家进来了。女孩坚持要他加入他们当中。但他看上去很害羞，只要了±清咖啡，年轻人畅谈着露宿沙滩的趣事，他却紧张地吸着烟。他们回到车上后，那个女孩又坐到了温哥的旁边。坐了一会儿，温哥缓慢而又略带辛酸地说出了自己的故事：他在纽约的监狱度过了四年的时光，现在要回家了。
“你有太太吗？”
“我不知道。”
“不知道？”她说。
“噢，是这样的，在监狱时，我曾写信给她，”他说，“我告诉她，我要离开一段时间，如果她不能等我，如果她厌烦孩子总问东问西，如果她心里承受不了这样的伤害，那么，她可以忘记我，我会理解她。我让她再找一个男人——她是一位好女人——她应该把我忘记，去过新的生活。我让她不必回信给我。她真的没回。三年半了，杳无音信。”
“你现在要回家了，还不知道什么情形吗？”
“是啊，”他腼腆地说，“哦，就在上周，我得知自己可以获释了，我又写了封信给她。她住在不伦瑞克，就在Jacksonville的下一站，镇口有棵大橡树。我告诉她，如果她还愿意接受我，就在树上挂一块黄手帕，我就会下车回家。如果她不想让我回去，就不必了——看不到手帕，我就不下车了，继续坐下去。”
“噢，”女孩唏嘘不已，“这样啊！”
女孩把这个故事讲给了其他人，很快，大家就都知道了。汽车越来越接近温哥的家乡不伦瑞克，温哥拿出妻子和孩子的照片给大家看——照片上的女人朴实而美丽，孩子们都尚在稚龄。由于摸得次数太多，照片已布满裂痕。