or
leave me alone
. Of course in the high school office, her brain had short-circuited, and she had done nothing intentionally, but everything in her body had been tingling, moving outward toward him, and surely, oh, surely he could read those signs. And she was not unattractive, she had learned that, too. She had grown up thinking that her older sister Daisy was the beauty of the family and that she, Dale, was the brain, mainly because Daisy had blond hair and blue eyes, while Dale had light-brown hair and hazel eyes. But in college, and in Europe, she had discovered first to her delight and later to her disdain that she had something that attracted many men: large breasts. During her last six months in Europe she had gotten so tired of it all, of the fuss men made over her breasts, that she had gone to a surgeon in Paris to see about having her breasts reduced. But the cost was prohibitive, and the surgeon, a woman, had warned her against it. “You wait,” she had said, “you’re young, you’re not married. You wait.” Dale had bought looser and looser sweaters and shirts, and that had become a sort of style for her: jeans, high boots, loose sweaters or shirts, loose dresses. Her one vanity now was her hair, which was a rich, soft brown with auburn lights, and which she had let grow during the past two years so that it now reached below her waist. She could not quite sit on it, but in another six months she would be able to. Her hair was beautiful, and she liked the feeling of it sweeping protectively across her back like a cloak, or pulled straight back and tied with a striped ribbon into a single luxurious fall. So she had that, her hair, and she had her large breasts, and the bones of her face were good—no, she was not unattractive. She was attractive. Attractive. Would she attract him, would Hank Kennedy have been attracted to her by those few minutes in the high school office? She thought so, she hoped so, she hoped so desperately. Because underneath the free flow of joy which now surged about inside her, a thin line of tension was running, the tension of desire.
The sun went down finally, and as it did the luminescence went out of things. The sky, the water, the sand, went from silver to gray. It was really quite cold on the beach. Dale’s feet and ankles had gone numb. Still she kept moving along the line of the water, not running now, but walking, hugging herself for warmth. The tide was beginning to come in, and it gradually pushed her closer and closer into the shore, up toward the solid world where there were houses and cars and people and telephones. Dale did not want to leave the edge of the ocean, she did not want to leave her pure wild sense of ecstasy—she did not want to face the rest of her life wondering if she would ever see the man again, wondering if he would ever call.
He had to call
. She willed it. If he did not call, if she did not see him again, her life would seem as bleak and cold and gray as the world did right now, and she could not bear that. Better to walk and walk, savoring the last shivers of joy and desire; while she walked on the beach she still had it all, there was still hope.
But when her teeth began to chatter, she knew she had to go home. As she sat down inside her car, she realized how weak she was, how tired. She could not stop shaking, she was so cold. She managed to pull her socks on, but her wooden clogs felt too heavy to pick up, to attach to her feet. She drove home with the car heater on full blast, her sock-covered foot occasionally slipping off the gas pedal. It was quite dark by the time she arrived at the colonial house where she and Carol shared the large second-floor apartment. Carol was home, and had all the lights on, and apparently had fixed dinner, even though it was Dale’s night to do it. The apartment smelled of the good thick beef stew that Carol loved to make. Dale yearned for its warmth and substance.
“My God, where have you been?” Carol
leave me alone
. Of course in the high school office, her brain had short-circuited, and she had done nothing intentionally, but everything in her body had been tingling, moving outward toward him, and surely, oh, surely he could read those signs. And she was not unattractive, she had learned that, too. She had grown up thinking that her older sister Daisy was the beauty of the family and that she, Dale, was the brain, mainly because Daisy had blond hair and blue eyes, while Dale had light-brown hair and hazel eyes. But in college, and in Europe, she had discovered first to her delight and later to her disdain that she had something that attracted many men: large breasts. During her last six months in Europe she had gotten so tired of it all, of the fuss men made over her breasts, that she had gone to a surgeon in Paris to see about having her breasts reduced. But the cost was prohibitive, and the surgeon, a woman, had warned her against it. “You wait,” she had said, “you’re young, you’re not married. You wait.” Dale had bought looser and looser sweaters and shirts, and that had become a sort of style for her: jeans, high boots, loose sweaters or shirts, loose dresses. Her one vanity now was her hair, which was a rich, soft brown with auburn lights, and which she had let grow during the past two years so that it now reached below her waist. She could not quite sit on it, but in another six months she would be able to. Her hair was beautiful, and she liked the feeling of it sweeping protectively across her back like a cloak, or pulled straight back and tied with a striped ribbon into a single luxurious fall. So she had that, her hair, and she had her large breasts, and the bones of her face were good—no, she was not unattractive. She was attractive. Attractive. Would she attract him, would Hank Kennedy have been attracted to her by those few minutes in the high school office? She thought so, she hoped so, she hoped so desperately. Because underneath the free flow of joy which now surged about inside her, a thin line of tension was running, the tension of desire.
The sun went down finally, and as it did the luminescence went out of things. The sky, the water, the sand, went from silver to gray. It was really quite cold on the beach. Dale’s feet and ankles had gone numb. Still she kept moving along the line of the water, not running now, but walking, hugging herself for warmth. The tide was beginning to come in, and it gradually pushed her closer and closer into the shore, up toward the solid world where there were houses and cars and people and telephones. Dale did not want to leave the edge of the ocean, she did not want to leave her pure wild sense of ecstasy—she did not want to face the rest of her life wondering if she would ever see the man again, wondering if he would ever call.
He had to call
. She willed it. If he did not call, if she did not see him again, her life would seem as bleak and cold and gray as the world did right now, and she could not bear that. Better to walk and walk, savoring the last shivers of joy and desire; while she walked on the beach she still had it all, there was still hope.
But when her teeth began to chatter, she knew she had to go home. As she sat down inside her car, she realized how weak she was, how tired. She could not stop shaking, she was so cold. She managed to pull her socks on, but her wooden clogs felt too heavy to pick up, to attach to her feet. She drove home with the car heater on full blast, her sock-covered foot occasionally slipping off the gas pedal. It was quite dark by the time she arrived at the colonial house where she and Carol shared the large second-floor apartment. Carol was home, and had all the lights on, and apparently had fixed dinner, even though it was Dale’s night to do it. The apartment smelled of the good thick beef stew that Carol loved to make. Dale yearned for its warmth and substance.
“My God, where have you been?” Carol
Similar Books
