Shehadsortofoakyhairthatthesunandsalthadbleached, doneupinabunthatwasunravelling, & Pwithyourstrapsdown, Isupposeit’, comingupoutofthosewhiteshoulders, lookedkindofstretched, butIdidn’, themoreofhertherewas.
...
“OhDaddy,” Stokesiesaidbesideme.“Ifeelsofaint.”
“Darling,” Isaid.“Holdmetight.” Stokesie’smarried, withtwobabieschalkeduponhisfuselagealready, butasfarasIcantellthat’’stwenty-two, andIwasnineteenthisApril.
“Isitdone?” heasks, ’sgoingtobemanagersomesunnyday, maybein1990whenit’scalledtheGreatAlexandrovandPetrooshkiTeaCompanyorsomething.
Whathemeantwas, ourtownisfivemilesfromabeach, withabigsummercolonyoutonthePoint, butwe’rerightinthemiddleoftown, , includingthem, , we’rerightinthemiddleoftown, ’snotasifwe’reontheCape; we’renorthofBostonandthere’speopleinthistownhaven’tseentheoceanfortwentyyears.
, theypointed, , Ibegantofeelsorryforthem, theycouldn’thelpit.
Nowherecomesthesadpartofthestory, atleastmyfamilysaysit’ssadbutIdon’tthinkit’’sprettyempty, itbeingThursdayafternoon, ’tknowwhichtunnelthey’, aroundthelightbulbs, recordsatdiscountoftheCaribbeanSixorTonyMartinSingsorsomesuchgunkyouwondertheywastethewaxon, sixpacksofcandybars, , Queeniestillleadingtheway, , butStokesiewithhisusualluckdrawsanoldpartyinbaggygraypantswhostumblesupwithfourgiantcansofpineapplejuicebum(whatdothesebumsdowithallthatpineapplejuice’ I’veoftenaskedmyself) : 49￠.Nowherhandsareempty, notaringorabracelet, bareasGodmadethem, andIwonderwherethemoney’, Ithoughtthatwassocute.
