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Show 21, Jeffries, Islamorada [Section 4] Five minutes passed and she brushed by him and he was mumbling like a wizard: "Who's your little who-sis?" "I beg your pardon." "Nothing. Never, never change. You're lovely just the way you look tonight." "Oh that's some old song--" A soft cloud had come east off the Gulf of Mexico and big raindrops splashed into the open vinyls of his car. He re-added the check, calculating the gratuity. Ten percent to the penny. He settled with the old hostess and watched his waitress laughing with some new guys, what were they, he could recognize, underwater photographers it looked like from their equipment. Very young, with the carefully blown and styled hair, and into jewelry, with Puka shells at the neck and wrists. They seemed dangerous, like some new phylum. He stood up stiffly to leave. "You!" she called. "What about our 'date'?" But again he went silent, except for two sets of nervous fingers drumming out across the red-checkered tablecloths, along the panelled wall, and out the half-mirroring glass doors. |
