Hide and Seek

I kept watching. I saw her eyes flicker and move, and then she was

gone up the beach to her friends. I thought she'd noticed me. And

then I thought that that was wishful thinking.

I knew it wasn't Rafferty. Girls don't notice Rafferty. At twenty his

face was still ravaged by pimples. His hands were stained with axle

grease. His face was red with whiskey. It's not that I'm any great

beauty, but my eyes are clear. I'm in pretty good shape to this day,

and whatever small problem I'd had with zits, I'd lost two years

before, at eighteen. So maybe it was me.

I thought it was me.

And thinking that made something glad and constricting happen

inmythroat. A happy snake coiled there. I drank a beer, and it didn't

go away.

But it was rough just sitting there after that. I wanted to walk up

the beach and talk to her in the worst way. But I was never any good

at approaches.

Besides, I was way outclassed and I knew it.

I worked in a lumberyard.

I sold quarter-inch plywood and pine and two-by-twos to contractors and

do-it-yourselfers.

College was on the back burner for a while and for all I cared it could

fry there. Oh, I'd read a lot and my grades were okay, but I'd had it

with school even worse than I'd had it with DeadRiver. Eventually

that would change. But at the time I was content with three-fifty an

hour and a little barmaid I knew called Lyssa Jean. Nice girl.

After that day on the beach, I never saw her again. Not once. Sorry,

Lyssa Jean.

Anyhow, it was not much fun sitting there after that, but I stuck it

out for another hour or so, hoping she'd get up for another swim. She

didn't. In the meantime Rafferty had struck up a conversation with

Lydia Davis.