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Show ifoodworth/129 Looks at her. She laughs, looking back at him, and he stops, time stops. He just looks at her, like he is seeing her for the first time, really feeling her for the first time. Then he smiles, just a half smile this time, and she smiles back. He looks up at the sail and a gust hits them. Smooth, natural, like an extension of the wind, he leans back over the water, arches his back, pulling tight on the main sheet. She strains, too, taut against the tiller, and the boat pulls hard against her hand. High up, the sun catches the number on the sail and still higher, above the highest batten, there is a fluttering luff, like a heart beat. He arches against the pull of the rope in his hands, looks back over his head, inches his forehead into the water. She arches, too, holding tight the tiller, listening to the waves slap the sides, and the puckering of the wind caught tight in the sheet until the gust passes, and they both relax back into the boat. She sees him standing outside the store before she is off work. Smiles and waves through the window, and he smiles back. The last customer leaves and, enjoying Bernie's disapproving glare, she grabs her purse, and hurries to meet him. "Where to?" he asks, taking her arm. "I'm completely in your power," she replies. The air is heavy with sweat, pollution, sap, moisture, but the smell excites her. She can feel it flowing all through her, and she is giddy with the promise of summer. "Quincy Market, then. Let's try the Raw Bar." She dances at his side like a child. Already, they seem so natural together, their steps matching, their arms linked. He tells her about his trip to New Hampshire -- really hrsrlast trip for the summer since the schools are all closed now, and no one needs tex-WaaaJs^ to-a-»ay, it's good, having the summer off. |