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Updated: May 4, 2025
"Friggin snow," the driver said. "Here you go." "You want to wait a couple of minutes off the meter? I'll need another ride." "Where to?" "There's supposed to be a big Japanese garden up on a hill. . ." "I'll wait." "Be right out." Oliver checked in, left his bag in his room, and came out feeling light-footed. He had a map in one pocket of his bush jacket. He unfolded it in the cab.
Eva had said in Joe's ear one afternoon. "Is she friggin beautiful, or what?" "Friggin beautiful," Joe said. "Like her writing." "Jesus," Eva said. "It works that way sometimes," Joe said. "I've seen it in paintings. Beautiful people can do beautiful work; they aren't afraid of it; they're used to it." Eva looked at him. She was good-looking herself, although not in Cleo's league.
"Hi, Oliver! Fun. Francesca's a good buddy." "Did you tell her about me?" "Why no. You're my secret, Sweet; I'm keeping you to myself. Besides, Francesca's beautiful. Men go gaga over her. She's one of these tall, dark, silent types. Gorgeous eyes, inner fires. I'd go for her myself if I weren't so friggin straight." "Hallelujah!" Oliver said with feeling. "Thank you," she said.
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