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Joe was shocked again at how untouched and beautiful she was. He smelled freshly baked bread. "Smells good." "I didn't know how hungry you'd be. I made a quiche. You can warm it up tomorrow if you don't want it." "Are you kidding?" He led her into the apartment, and she took possession of the kitchen area. "I've got something for you," Joe said. He handed her a book on Vermeer. "Oooh," she said.
"Four guys one on each corner. They bring it in every year. It's Angus's. He has a band, plays Dixieland and early jazz." "Oooh," Willow said, "stride piano." She had grown up listening to Scott Joplin, Jelly Roll Morton, and Fats Waller, her father's nod to modernity. Straight from Bach, he used to say. She sipped her beer. Martin Merrill arrived. "Hey there, Art. Hi, Willow." "Hey, Martin.
"Well, it's that time of year," Oliver said, giving in. "We won't stay long." "We'll stay as long as you want," he said. They went to bed early that night. When Jennifer reached for Oliver, he followed her lead, waited for her, and tried to stay close. He floated away and brought himself back. She was uncomplicated sexually. Thank goodness. She rubbed his back. "Oooh, that was nice," she said.
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