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Patrick noticed the orange glow of cigarettes on the opposite bank, but he couldn't see the faces behind them. He forgot about them when Sue pulled her T-shirt up over her head and stepped out of her jeans and underwear. "C'mon, Patrick." Her body was compact and tanned; one curve flowed naturally into the next.
Jamie told me how she liked to swim that path and how, several times, she nearly hadn't made it back. We were young. I was giddy with accomplishment as we finished a second bottle of wine. She was wearing a tight T-shirt and shorts, apparently unaware of the effect her body had on me as she told me about her parents and her friends on the island. She had summered on Nantucket for years.
On the way off the hill, he noticed the Caffe Ladro and remembered the woman in the bookstore. The next morning, he thought about checking out of the Edgewater, but he had no plan. He registered for another night and drove back to the Queen Anne district. He had a latte and a bagel in the Caffe Ladro and bought a T-shirt. He was hoping the woman would come in.
She put her hands on his chest, feeling his nipples through his T-shirt. "Mmm," she said brushing her fingers down his sides and trailing them over his hips. Her cleavage was close to his mouth. Honeysuckle. She stepped back. "Watch me," she said. She played with her body, rubbing her breasts slowly and hitching up her nightshirt.
She had changed into dark brown cotton pants, a cream colored T-shirt, and a red plaid flannel shirt, unbuttoned. She hung his jacket on a peg by the door. "You look great," Oliver said. It was the truest thing he had said all week. "Thank you." She stopped a moment, pleased. "I put the water on. Want some tea? Some lunch?" "Tea would be good. I'm not too hungry maybe a piece of toast?"
"She's a terrific photographer," he said. "Want to go?" Rhiannon looked down at her black cotton pants and touched her T-shirt. "I'll have to change." "It's not until four o'clock. She's a working gal; it won't be fancy." Rhiannon looked at him as though he were retarded and agreed to meet him there at four-thirty. Later, Joe went home and changed into one of his better aloha shirts.
She wore a caramel colored T-shirt that showed a black elongated figure above the name "Caffe Ladro." Her shoulders were wide; the cotton draped comfortably around high flat breasts and fell a distance to her hips. She appeared to be in her forties. Joe hoped that she didn't have blue eyes. Two types of women got to Joe immediately. One was black Irish, blue eyed.
"Yeah, craps, the best. Down on the boardwalk . . ." Oliver made a reservation at Bally's and considered what to wear. A plaid shirt and jeans weren't going to do it; there was something significant and ceremonial about this trip. He had a summer linen suit that he'd worn to his sister's wedding, years ago. He bought a mulberry colored T-shirt to wear under the jacket.
She played piano well enough to fool around, to maybe get at what she was feeling. Her eyes closed, and, without opening them, she lowered the half empty mug to the stone floor. An hour later, she brushed her hair and put on a slinky black T-shirt. She folded a sweater, weighed it down with a book in the bike basket, and coasted down the mountain. Her favorite table was empty, a good sign.
When she stopped to attend to his interruption, he noticed that her hair was rubber banded into a vertical column on top of her head. The young man was sitting off to one side, wearing jeans and a T-shirt printed with the words, "None of the Above."
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