She watched him from the water.
Tall and wiry, the body of an athlete.
So beautiful, she thought.
He came running across the beach, long strides, sand splashing up behind him, entered the water running, knees pumping, took a long, shallow dive, and surfaced grinning some ten feet from where he’d gone under.
“Water’s even warmer than the air,” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
“Lovely,” he said.
He was talking about her.
“Lovely,” she said.
She was talking about him.
“I didn’t call because I forgot your number,” he said.
They were treading water, facing each other. Moonlight rippled the surface, silver coins floating everywhere around them.
“Shame on you,” she said.
“My memory is usually very good.”
“Maybe you wanted to forget it.”
“No, no, why would I want to forget it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you’re scared of me.”
“No, no.”
“Because I’m an older, more experienced woman.”
“I’ll bet,” he said.
“I’ll bet,” she said, and smiled mysteriously.
“You’re very beautiful,” he said.
“So are you.”
They kissed in the moonlight.
Only their lips touching.
Floating on that sea of coins, lips touching. Gently.
She said, “Mmmm.”
He said, “Yes.”
They swam for some ten minutes, the memory of that single kiss lingering, the night laden with expectation.
“So how were you about to call me?” she asked. “If you’d forgotten the number?”
“Oh. I got it from a friend of mine in the Calusa P.D.”
“Went to all that trouble.”
“Yes.”
“My my,” she said.
“381-3645,” he said.
“That’s it, all right.”
“Emblazoned,” he said, and ran a forefinger across his forehead.
“All that trouble,” she said, and kissed him again.
They were standing in shallow water this time. He put his arms around her, drew her closer to him. She lifted her arms, circled his neck. Kissed him harder. His hands cupped her buttocks. She moved in closer to him.
“Oh my,” she said.
They walked out of the water hand in hand. He looked up and down the beach again. Still empty. A crescent moon in the star-drenched sky. They were alone in the night, alone in the universe.
“I mixed martinis,” he said.
“So thoughtful,” she said.
He removed the lid from the cooler, reached in for the tin of pate, snapped off the key fastened to its top, inserted it into the groove, said, “These things never work,” and then swiftly and without difficulty peeled back the top. “A miracle,” he said. She was watching him. She was thinking how very handsome he looked in his boxer trunks and his high-top fade. She was wondering if she should take off the top of her bikini, this was a topless beach. No, she thought, let him take it off.
He opened the box of biscuits, and then took from the cooler a white plastic knife and a pair of translucent plastic cups. “I’ll pour if you fix,” he said, and handed her a white paper plate. She began spreading pate on the biscuits. He watched her, thinking how long and slender and elegant her fingers were, how studious she looked with her head bent, concentrating on the biscuits, evenly spreading the pate, moonlight catching her high cheekbones and perfect nose. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, he thought.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he said.
“That’s very nice of you,” she said softly, and looked up at him.
“These aren’t the best glasses for martinis,” he said. “Plastic.”
He seemed suddenly embarrassed.
“They’re fine,” she said.
“I forgot to bring olives,” he said.
“Who needs olives?” she said.
He poured the drinks.
“I love martinis,” she said.
“So do I.”
“Silver bullets,” she said.
“Mmm,” he said.
They put the lid back on the cooler, using it as a low table, the plate with the crackers on it, the orange juice bottle with what was left of the martinis. Moonlight touched her hair. Moonlight touched the sloping tops of her breasts above the skimpy green bikini top. He wondered if she would take off that top, this was a topless beach. He thought he would die if she took off the top. He hoped she would not take off the top. Somehow, that would be cheap, and Fiona Gill was not a cheap woman.
“Did you see From Here to Eternity?” she asked.
“I think so. The movie, do you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, I saw it on television.”
“I don’t mean the mini-series they made…”
“No, no, the movie. With Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr.”
“Yes. These are very good, Warren.”
“Thank you.”
“Strong but good. This reminds me of that movie.”
“It does?”
“The scene in that movie.”
“Which scene, Fiona?”
“Where they’re on the beach making love,” she said, “and the waves are rushing in.”
His heart began pounding hard again.
“The waves rushing in,” she said, and looked out over the sea. “Have you ever noticed,” she said, “that there aren’t too many scenes with black people making love? In the movies, I mean. Well, forget television, can you imagine Bill Cosby making love? But you’d think in the movies…”
“Well, I think I’ve seen love scenes,” Warren said.
“Where’d you see them?” she asked. “These scenes.”
“I think I saw Gregory Hines doing some love scenes. I think.”
“Did you ever see Eddie Murphy kissing anybody?”
“I think so, yes. In the one where he’s this African chief coming to find a bride here. I think he kisses her.”
“Kisses her.”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you kiss me?” she said.
He kissed her. Long and hard. They put down their drinks. He lowered her to the blanket and kissed her again.
“I love kissing you,” she whispered.
“I love kissing you,” he whispered.
His hand moved under the flimsy green top, found her naked breast. The nipple was hard. From the water, he guessed. But the water wasn’t cold.
“It’s because they’re afraid of it,” she said.
“Of what?” he said.
“Of showing sex between two black people,” she said.
“I’ll bet that’s it,” he said.
“They’re afraid we’ll incite the populace to riot,” she said, and laughed softly.
He kissed the laughter from her mouth. And untied the top of her suit. Her breasts spilled free.
“Yes,” she said.
He kissed her nipples.
Her hand slid down inside his trunks.
“Do you suppose it’s true what they say about black men?” she asked.
Which meant she’d never been to bed with a white man, and had no basis for comparison. He hoped. For that matter, he hoped she’d never been to bed with anyone but her ex-husband, hoped she was a virgin except for him, knew this was impossible, almost asked her if it was possible, but didn’t. Instead his hand moved flat over her belly and down into the bottom of the green bikini, his fingers questing.
“It must be true,” she said, “what they say.”
“Mm-huh,” he said.
“About black men,” she said.
“Mm-huh.”
Finding her.
“That must be why they’re so afraid of doing a real sex scene,” she said.