| OCR Text |
Show Woodworth/l Oil- Remember beer. He drops his hand back, letting it rest on her stomach. "Do you suppose this place has a shower?" That's right. He's married. Must wash away her smell, the traces. "How the hell should I know?" she snaps, but he ignores her anger, rolls off the bed, peers in the bathroom. "Amazing. They actually do." He comes back, stands by the bed, looking down at her. She wants to cover herself, his stare is so brutal, but won't give him that satisfaction. "Hey," he holds out his hand to her. "Let's take a shower." His eyes are open, trust me. She rolls to the side of the bed, sits up. His hand is level with her eyes, and she takes it. Such long fingers -- her hand feels small. She stands, and they walk, naked together, to the bathroom. Shower in silence, soaping each other's back, arms, legs. He leans against the side of the stall, and she lifts one foot and soaps between every toe, behind the bones of his ankles, then lifts the other foot and soaps it. He does the same for her, and she looks down at his hair, lying flat' • against his head now, wet and dripping. He washes her tenderly, massaging each toe, along the line of her in-step, her arch, up and down her Achilles' tendon. He leaves her at the subway stop, kisses her lightly, and boards the in-town train. warty takes the green line to the end, and, afraid to call her parents, not willing to see them outside of their own home, she takes the bus the rest of the way. Surprise that it should be light still, still the same day. |
