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Updated: June 2, 2025
He felt the unfinished intonation, like a rocket that had never dropped its stick, and started up the steps after her. "What is it, Marylin?" "Nothing," she said and ran in. The window in her little rear room with the zigzag of fire escape across it was already full of dusk.
It was a bony face, so narrow that the eyes and the cheek bones had to be pitched close, and his black hair, usually so shiny, was down in a bang now, because it was damp, and to Marylin there was something sinister in that dip of bang which frightened her. "What you don't know don't hurt you. You hear that?
"Whadda you mean?" "Diamonds on your twenty a week! It can't be done." His gaze lit up with the pointiness. "I tell you, Marylin, I can promise you headlights!" "How?" "Never you bother your little head how; O.K., though." "How, Getaway?" "Oh clean if that's what's worrying you. Clean-cut." "It is worrying me." "Saw one on a little Jane yesterday out to Belmont race track.
She was frightened, because for all of an hour she sat on the end of the cot in her little room trembling and with her palms pressed into her eyes so tightly that the darkness spun. There was quick connection in Marylin between what was emotional and what was merely sensory. She knew, from the sickness at the very pit of her, how sick were her heart and her soul and how afraid.
God you know best help When the shot came that sent Getaway pitching forward down the third-floor flight she was on her own room floor in a long and merciful faint. Marylin had not reached out. Time passed. Whole rows of days of buttonholes down pleats that were often groped at through tears. Heavy tears like magnifying glasses.
I'm straight with you, but I'm human, too." "Don't, Getaway, not here! To-morrow maybe." "I'm crazy for you!" "Go home now, Getaway." "Yes but just one more " "Promise me you'll go straight home from here to bed." "I promise. Marylin, one more. One little more. Your lips " "No, no not now. Go "
The silver scheherazade of poplar leaves when the breeze is playful? No. She was far nimbler than a leaf tugging at its stem. A young faun on the brink of a pool, startled at himself? Yes, a little. Because Marylin's head always had a listening look to it, as if for a message that never quite came through to her. From where? Marylin didn't know and didn't know that she didn't know.
They were quiet now with pleasant fatigue, and, propped up on his elbows, he spilled little rills of sand from one fist into the other. "Gee! you're pretty, Marylin!" "Are I, Getaway?" "You know you are. You wasn't born with one eye shut and the other blind." "Honest, I don't know. Sometimes I look in the mirror and hope so." "You've had enough fellows tell you so."
They were companionable, those footsteps, almost like reverential marching on the grave of her heart. Marylin reversed the rosette, and as the light began to go sat down beside her window, idly, looking up.
She did not reply, but lay to the accompaniment of his violent nervousness and pinchings into the sand, with her face still away from him, while the dusk deepened and the ocean quieted. After a while: "Now, Marylin, don't be sore. I may be a rotten egg some ways, but when it comes to you, I'm there." "I'm not sore, Getaway," she said, with her voice still away from him.
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