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Show tfoodworth/33 V:arty. "You sure is looking goo-ood tonight!" Marty sees the glint of the chains around his neck, the neon reflections on his naked chest, and wide, square teeth. She doesn't move until he passes, and then checks all four doors, making sure they are locked. She takes Commonwealth towards the Gardens, stop-and-go between sidewalks of couples, arms linked or free, holding brown-wrapped six-packs or shopping bags between long-legged shadows, walking shadowy dogs in the center strip. Then the Garden, with its globe-lit paths, and the Boston sky line behind it, a barrier of routine and industry between the Garden and the waterfront. Marty skirts the Garden and the Common, takes Washington Street into the heart of the Combat Zone. Couples are replaced by hookers, leaning against fenced-in store-fronts, and by clots of people, milling from one intersection to the next. The bar is voices, smoke, eyes, '••'•arty feels suddenly all breasts, hips, cunt. She pushes towards the back room, running a gammet of hands, wrists, elbows, hip bones, thighs that brush against her; conscious of eyes, moving her hips. Rachael is sitting at a table, plumped between two men. One is watching her breasts as they swell up and down, centimeters from the table top. The other is watching her face. She talks quickly, her hands flapping. Even with a herd of bubbling people between them, ""arty can hear her friend's voice: a high-pitched squeal. Marty is always newly-jolted by that voice, an impossible noise to be coming from Rachael who, with her square build topped by dark, chaotically frizzy hair, would be more likely to sound husky. Marty is practically seated before Rachael notices her- "Hi, Marty," she squeals. "This is my friend, "arty. And this," she indicates a pale, sandy-haired man with a complexion |
