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Show Woodworth/^8 He turns towards them, smiles. He, too, has a mustache, the prickly kind that seems to grow straight out instead of resting on the contour of the lip. Hair prickly, too. A careful cut that refuses to lie flat. Thin lips. He looks to Marty like a little boy, cold from swimming. He explains strikes to them, and spares, correcting their adding with the greasy black pencil. Marty, sitting, is tucked under his curled body- She watches his hand, the hairs that are almost close enough to move when she breaths. "See?" he asks, and turns his face towards her. This close, she wants to kiss him. "Horny and stones," she thinks. "Just the right combination." She can see each hair of the growth on his face, smell beer on his breath. "Ok if we bowl together?" he asks. "It's ok if we get a head start." It seems to "Tarty that Rachael has stuck her chest out a little further. "We'll give you ten pins head start," he says, and starts to write all four of their names across the top of the score sheet. "Marty," he reads, "and Rachael. Which is which?" "I'm Rachael," Rachael says. "That's Marty." -arty smiles at him from under his arm pit. "I'm Gary, and this is my friend, Dave." When he writes their names, steadying the score sheet with his left hand, Marty notices the gold wedding band. When Dave or Rachael bowls, Gary comes and lounges next to her, stretching himself across the orange plastic bench. He locks his hands behind his head, or drapes them over the |