that counts. Well, you know what? It’s not the thought that counts. Cheap is cheap, period .” She swallowed the last of her drink and shook the ice around in her glass like a rattle. “I’ve been divorced twice.”
“Ouch,” he said.
She made a face like it hurt. She twisted her torso to catch the bar tender’s attention and seesawed her glass. “I guess I’m not the marrying kind, whatever that means.”
“I’m not sure I want to know, actually.”
She laughed, showing her little white teeth.
“Maybe it’s not important,” he said.
She looked at him as if the idea had never occurred to her, and then said, “But of course it’s important. It’s the most important thing in the world. And I happen to suck at it.”
“Maybe you just haven’t met the right guy.”
She tilted her head. “Maybe.”
The bartender brought her drink.
“Took you long enough.”
The bartender winked. “Now you really want it.”
“Wanting it’s the least of my problems.”
The bartender looked at Hugh. “You want another?”
“Sure.”
“Here,” she said, fishing her cherry out of the glass, holding it by the stem. “I want you to have it after all.”
“Why the change of heart?”
“Something tells me you’ve been deprived.” She dangled the cherry over his mouth. Feeling foolish, he caught the slippery thing in his teeth. When he bit into it the sweet pulp prickled his cheeks.
“They’ve been exploited, of course, like everything else.”
“Cherries?”
“But they’re symbolic.”
“How do you mean?”
“When you’re a kid you always get the cherry. It’s like a kid-bonus. And then you grow up and you’re not supposed to want it anymore.”
“You’re starting to sound like my shrink.”
She smiled. “Cheap philosophy from a second-rate writer.”
“I doubt that.” He looked at her. She was both charming and pathetic. “Why do you say that?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Because it’s true.”
“What sort of stuff do you write?”
“Crap,” she said. “I’m the first to admit it. I’ve actually made my peace with it.” Her modesty seemed genuine; a little too genuine.
“I don’t believe you.”
She looked down at her hands, shrugged.
“Let me read something. I’ll tell you if it’s crap.”
She gave him a coy smile. She had a look about her that he couldn’t quite figure.
“We can act out the scenes,” he suggested. “I’ll play the hero.”
“Who says there’s a hero?”
“This is America. There’s gotta be a hero. You want to sell tickets, don’t you?”
“All right, if you insist. But you’re not exactly who I pictured for the part.”
“I clean up good.”
“Who said anything about clean?”
“Now I’m getting curious.”
“Dirty interests me.”
“Really?”
“Still interested?”
“I’m a very convincing actor.”
“I’ll bet you arc.”
They ate oysters, noisily sucking the shells. They drank all afternoon, then stepped out into the dwindling light, blinking. They ran to the beach, kicking off their shoes. The water was cold and very blue. The sky was violet. He could not remember seeing a more beautiful night. Ida looked like a kid, running in the surf. She had short, pale legs, full thighs. He knew he could kiss her if he wanted to. He could feel her thinking about it, wondering if he would. Maybe he would, later. Still, he sensed there was something fragile about her. Maybe she was broken. She had a history. He wasn’t sure he could deal with it.
“I’ll tell you my life story,” she had whispered in his ear at the bar, “if you’ll tell me yours.” Under the circumstances, the way she’d said it with her warm oyster breath had turned him on. She’d been born and raised in Iowa. He tried to imagine her as a girl there with her knock-knees and flat feet and precocious breasts and slightly swayed back. He pictured a tire swing on a big oak tree, somebody’s pickup in the driveway. A clapboard house
“Ouch,” he said.
She made a face like it hurt. She twisted her torso to catch the bar tender’s attention and seesawed her glass. “I guess I’m not the marrying kind, whatever that means.”
“I’m not sure I want to know, actually.”
She laughed, showing her little white teeth.
“Maybe it’s not important,” he said.
She looked at him as if the idea had never occurred to her, and then said, “But of course it’s important. It’s the most important thing in the world. And I happen to suck at it.”
“Maybe you just haven’t met the right guy.”
She tilted her head. “Maybe.”
The bartender brought her drink.
“Took you long enough.”
The bartender winked. “Now you really want it.”
“Wanting it’s the least of my problems.”
The bartender looked at Hugh. “You want another?”
“Sure.”
“Here,” she said, fishing her cherry out of the glass, holding it by the stem. “I want you to have it after all.”
“Why the change of heart?”
“Something tells me you’ve been deprived.” She dangled the cherry over his mouth. Feeling foolish, he caught the slippery thing in his teeth. When he bit into it the sweet pulp prickled his cheeks.
“They’ve been exploited, of course, like everything else.”
“Cherries?”
“But they’re symbolic.”
“How do you mean?”
“When you’re a kid you always get the cherry. It’s like a kid-bonus. And then you grow up and you’re not supposed to want it anymore.”
“You’re starting to sound like my shrink.”
She smiled. “Cheap philosophy from a second-rate writer.”
“I doubt that.” He looked at her. She was both charming and pathetic. “Why do you say that?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Because it’s true.”
“What sort of stuff do you write?”
“Crap,” she said. “I’m the first to admit it. I’ve actually made my peace with it.” Her modesty seemed genuine; a little too genuine.
“I don’t believe you.”
She looked down at her hands, shrugged.
“Let me read something. I’ll tell you if it’s crap.”
She gave him a coy smile. She had a look about her that he couldn’t quite figure.
“We can act out the scenes,” he suggested. “I’ll play the hero.”
“Who says there’s a hero?”
“This is America. There’s gotta be a hero. You want to sell tickets, don’t you?”
“All right, if you insist. But you’re not exactly who I pictured for the part.”
“I clean up good.”
“Who said anything about clean?”
“Now I’m getting curious.”
“Dirty interests me.”
“Really?”
“Still interested?”
“I’m a very convincing actor.”
“I’ll bet you arc.”
They ate oysters, noisily sucking the shells. They drank all afternoon, then stepped out into the dwindling light, blinking. They ran to the beach, kicking off their shoes. The water was cold and very blue. The sky was violet. He could not remember seeing a more beautiful night. Ida looked like a kid, running in the surf. She had short, pale legs, full thighs. He knew he could kiss her if he wanted to. He could feel her thinking about it, wondering if he would. Maybe he would, later. Still, he sensed there was something fragile about her. Maybe she was broken. She had a history. He wasn’t sure he could deal with it.
“I’ll tell you my life story,” she had whispered in his ear at the bar, “if you’ll tell me yours.” Under the circumstances, the way she’d said it with her warm oyster breath had turned him on. She’d been born and raised in Iowa. He tried to imagine her as a girl there with her knock-knees and flat feet and precocious breasts and slightly swayed back. He pictured a tire swing on a big oak tree, somebody’s pickup in the driveway. A clapboard house
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