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Show 37, Jeffries, Islamorada "Yes," she blushed. "I think maybe you are. Well then I'm good too. But none of this experimental stuff-" "But pretty lady," he began, drawn into advocating a devil, "if you were to go with your emotions for a moment-maybe there's something to be said for two people in, ah, love who want to see how they'll, if they can-" The musicians had stopped. The old eavesdropper had his arms up, the way Roger Staubach quiets Texas Stadium. The cocktail waitresses stared neutrally- "I just know, when I'm ready," she said.- with a new shrillness, "you won't need a shoehorn." Eventually everyone will stop staring. "God damn it, I just wish you had your own place," she whispered angrily. "I know, I know," he consoled absently. "Are you wearing down, Diamond? Do you want to go home?" "No I don't want to go home. What I want is, maybe, for us to get a room here." "Certainly, Diamond, if I were still working-" "Relax, Lover Buttons. It's my treat." He made his way out to the car for the scruffy little Slippery Rock gym bag that could impersonate luggage. He watched her pull out a drummer's pride of credit cards, and sign in Mrs. Diamond Clayton. As the clerk winked, "Thank you, Miss, uh, Griffin." |