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Show Dublonsky and I together. I can't help it. Together in his photograph, on the deck of that boat, somewhere in the Caribbean. Just off the white pebbly shore of a little coconut-tree island. Maybe we've just been swimming. "Dublonsky?" I say. "Yes, Love?" "Will it always be the same between us?" "Of course, Jenny." We're lying on the deck, naked, the sun beating down on our skin. "Did you like it when we did it in the water?" I ask. "I loved it," he says. The sea is slap-slapping at the side of the boat. His hand is on my bottom which is bronzed by the sun. "Dublonsky?" I say. "Yes, Love?" "Kiss me." He kisses me. "Like this?" "Like that. Yes." "No," I tell him. That jerk, Owen, in the hall this morning. "Not even once?" he repeats for the second time. "Not even once," I say. "If you don't have them bad they can be almost fun," he says. |
