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Show Jeffries, Islamorada, Section 3, Page 1 Entropy, he thought. In this summer heat, a torpid complacence. The radio played "Seasons in the Sun," and "Spiders and Snakes," and then "Mocedades" by El Chicano. In the evening the cheap radio couldn't get anything consistently; Lupita, the Spanish girl in Miami would come in, and then it would shift to a political rally from Cuba, then the radio would fade into a whistling howl that was close to the idea of isolation, and out of that would come woo-ooo, wishing you were here, by Chicago. Yeah. . .he sang, wishing you were here. . . and then he checked himself, startled to realize that he couldn't apply that to anybody in particular. Dorian Clayton got up and moved across his abode to unplug the hot plate. He went back to his bed and considered the sandstone walls of his residence. An hour passed, and he lay there fitting the room to himself like a shell. When he had the initiative to get away, February would be waiting fifty miles southwest on her island. She'd go into the trunks for the old clothes, and be posed on a love seat near the water's edge, and it was a |
