. ." She shook her head and smiled helplessly.
"I'll read my book."
"We've got to talk sometime," he said. She nodded. He took a deep
breath and left.
Oliver was trembling as he drove away. What was that all about? He and
Suzanne had become more friendly as time had gone by. They often
talked, and she was always sympathetic. But he hadn't expected anything
like what had just happened. His breathing was still messed up. When
she had surrendered to him, he had been jolted by a rush of strength.
He felt like Ghengis Khan or something.
Suzanne was sharp. She remembered everything he said about the computer
system, repeating things back to him word for word months later. She
was very helpful. He depended on her support, he realized. There was
something about her that got to him, a lonely bruised quality. She had
eloped in high school, run away to Tennessee, and returned eighteen
months later. Her family and the church took her back, but . . . She
was still living in a shamed shadow.
He decided that he needed a Guinness. He stopped at Deweys, and two
pints later he was back in control. Better than that. The last of the
warrior-lovers invited the entire bar to the housewarming and went home.
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