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Show 116 boots for Nick. Brown, fine-tooled Moroccan, tomorrow morning they will be brought out from their hiding place on the porch. Nick will laugh, call them dumb-shits for going to the expense, and the boots will probably be the wrong size. Steven's gift to Sara is under his bed, a blue shawl he is worried she won't like-tassles, but the nicest one he could find. Knowing that she has something for him. Steven hopes that whatever it is, whatever she has given him- and it hardly matters what it is since it is the thought that counts-hopes that whatever it is she has not put it under their bed. Steven's fist is clenched-against the cold he wants to think. And he is listening, though there are only street noises now, a car accelerating beyond Enrique's, dogs barking in the distance, a scratchy record player voice he can't locate. At times he thinks he can hear the sea, a block away. It is in his ears, rhythmic, sensual. It reminds him of Sara's month-old pledge. To go swimming on Christmas day, no matter how cold. He has seen her in a bathing suit. Has seen her out of a bathing suit, on her way to the bathroom, the bedroom, scurrying in her nakedness through the cold. Sees her now. Smallish breasts and slender legs, softly athletic, light on her feet and smiling back over her shoulder at him, "Oh hi," surprised yet pleased, Steven would like to think, that he has seen her. "So damn cold," swish. "Bladder of a goddamn goat," swish. |
