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Oliver sat at the kitchen table to eat, but he couldn't take his eyes from her breasts. They were just right, hanging and swelling under her T-shirt; they were perfect for his mouth, like pears, but so much better. "God!" He shook his head. "You are too much." Suzanne flushed. "Is that going to hold you?" "Terrific," he said. He ate quickly and stood. "I've got to go." "Hold on."
A few weeks later, Oliver was waiting for a seat in Becky's, standing by the door, when Francesca came in with her two girls. Oliver looked at her and all doubt left him. It was as if they had arranged to meet. "Hi," he said. "Hi." She was tanned, wearing a large white "Harbor Fish" T-shirt over dark brown cotton pants. "Mommy, I have to go to the bathroom."
She sat up, swinging her feet down to the cool flagstones. "Yes," she said. "Shower." Squirrelie ran up the tree out of view. Willow made a pile of clothes on the cotton coverlet and took the bundle to the washing machine in a corner of the kitchen. She pulled off her T-shirt and walked into the bathroom where she regarded herself in the mirror before getting into the shower.
That T-shirt isn't going to make you any friends." "Just because I'm living in Maryland, doesn't mean I'm a traitor," she said, leading him into the kitchen. "How was Atlantic City?" "Weird. I won. It wasn't what I was expecting." Jacky took the crab cake mix from the refrigerator. She turned on a burner under a Dutch oven half full of oil.
The day after Christmas, he was at the Moana leaning back with a beer and thinking about Sperandeo's book on stock trading when someone asked, "Caffe Ladro?" The woman he'd seen in Seattle was standing a few feet away, looking at his T-shirt. "Ah, Moira." he said, standing up. She was trying to place him. "Winifred," she said. "Last month. Moira was a guess."
Claude Lavalle was having his difficulties, and he wished fervently that his assistants could have been sent up on the shuttle with him. Millie Williams, her satiny brown skin contrasting to her white T-shirt and shorts, was also having her troubles.
Two hours later, Oliver was in Maryland easing around a curve on a gravel driveway. Stones crunched under his wheels as he stopped in front of a white colonial. Jacky came out to meet him. She was wearing a Red Sox T-shirt and a wrap-around cotton skirt. "Well, well," she said looking at his suit and holding her arms open. "What have we here?" "A player," Oliver said, coming close.
"I'll miss you. Love that T-shirt." He meant what was underneath. She wiggled in her chair, pleased. "I've got the day off tomorrow," she told him. "I'd love to see you." "Good deal. Here, after work?" They agreed and she watched him leave, walking slowly. She wanted to tell him about her decision, but he had a lot on his mind. It could wait until tomorrow.
She didn't seem conscious of the change. Joe looked away. Three-footers curled peacefully along the beach as far as he could see. They sat on the soft sand, and Mo took off her sweatshirt. Joe lay back with his head on his shoes and admired her breasts, high and shapely beneath a gray T-shirt. Steady, he said to himself, the woman barely likes you. Who was she, anyway?
He was an emaciated "money boy" with a book bag swung onto a bony shoulder; and he was wearing torn jeans, a grey t-shirt and the rife stink of his rotting skin. He saw him but in Gabriele's eyes. She knew his and her plight instantly: suffering was there, pulling decades from his skin and misery was intruding on her contemplation of beauty.
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