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Show 102 But at the first stop light, he squeezed her knee, running his hand along up the inside of her leg. "Don't," she grabbed his wrist, "you'll run my nylon." "Don't," he mocked, snapping her garter. "Roger!" He withdrew his hand. "You'll get me all mussed," she protested, wiggling, readjusting herself in the seat. "You like it," he declared. She looked mock-defiantly at him. "Roger-don't!" he mocked. She shoved his shoulder, pinning him against the door, his big face laughing. A car honked behind. "The light's green-let's go!" she yelled. And they were off, through the late Saturday afternoon traffic. To the west, out under a soft orange ball of a sun, lay the green November ocean. And its expanse, out beyond the incoming waves, seemed to suddenly open something in her. A part of herself-long concealed, long locked up within her-was suddenly released, flowing out of her. Her own self, her true self, the self which was not taken up by her daily concerns, by the family-this was the first time in over a year she had not made supper!-by school, even by her job, surfacing here, bearing her along with the incoming waves. And then out on that green expanse, a dark figure suddenly stood-a surfer in a wet suit, he had been concealed in a trough-the wave carrying him up into its breast |