Suzanne gave
herself to him totally. Her trusting eyes put him in a powerful place.
But as he swelled with strength, something else happened--a little
voice whispered: _take care of her; she's yours._ He never felt that
with Jacky or with Jennifer. They took care of themselves.
The quilt had shocked him. Suzanne was gifted. She was so sexy, so
physical, so loving--how could she not have children? She deserved a
good husband and family, not a misfit for a lover, too old for her, and
married besides. Her breasts. God. Oliver drove faster.
"Pint of the finest," he said to Sam. His favorite spot was empty at
the end of the bar. He leaned against the wall and listened to Taj
Mahal playing the blues, keeping precise and honest time. He slid the
empty glass toward Sam. "Let's do that again." Women. Halfway through
the second pint, he said it out loud, "Women," and let go a deep
breath. Deweys at that hour was securely masculine. It was understood
that women were a source of difficulty, desirable though they were.
Oliver glanced around the room. The man didn't exist, in Deweys, at
that hour, who didn't have the scars to prove it.
He raised his glass to Mark who had just come in.
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