"
"Damn," Oliver said again. They were quiet again.
"I've got to go," he said, standing up.
"I think I'll stay here for a bit," she said. "I want to watch you walk
away."
"Be careful," he pleaded.
"Bye, Baby," she said.
He looked at her for a long moment. She smiled for him, the smile that
entranced him the first day he saw her in Becky's. Her mouth traveled
slowly down, along, and up a complex curve, sexual at its center,
sensitive at its corners, wholly alive and in the moment. He nodded in
the Japanese manner, the way he had that day. Then he smiled
quickly--an American promise laid on top of the Japanese one--and left.
He looked back from the top of the bank at the end of the beach. She
was watching him, unmoving. He lifted one arm high and walked out of
sight. A hundred yards farther, he followed a smaller path to a
clearing overlooking the water. He dropped to the ground and lay in a
fetal position on his side with his knees drawn up and his hands
between his legs. He hurt too much to cry. He just wanted to survive.
There was only one level of feeling beneath his love for Francesca; he
had to get there. The hard cold ground was anesthetic and numbing.
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