First Avenue by Lowen Clausen Page A

there.
    Old
Mr.
Simpson
was out with his plastic bags, picking up debris.
Simpson
was the self-appointed janitor, and he took it upon himself to pick up any trash that washed ashore or was left by outsiders who had found their beach. Because of him all the neighbors were more careful to pick up after themselves and after others.
    There was too much for
Mr.
Simpson
that day. One by one, the neighbors came out to help, and then she came. She knew
Simpson
, who lived between
Sam
and her.
Simpson
introduced her to everyone. Garbage bags in hand, the neighbors waved and smiled. All were pleased that the immigrant was learning, too. When it was his turn to be introduced,
Sam
stepped forward and shook her hand. She was wearing leather gardening gloves.
    Her red hair was tied back, and she wore boots and blue jeans and a heavy sweater. They worked together, forgetting the others, picking up information about each other along with the garbage that filled their bags. They worked until
Simpson
told them to quit. “We’ve got it good enough,” he shouted to them, as though they were under his charge. Like good neighbors, he and
Georgia
parted and walked their separate paths around
Simpson
’s house.
    “It was the storm,” he reminded Georgia .
    “That storm had nothing to do with it. We had already met in our minds.”
    “Okay,” he said, giving in to her interpretation. “So how did I measure up to your mind?”
    “You measured up fine, as far as it went.”
    “What do you mean by that?”
    “It took a little while, if you remember, to get to know you. It wasn’t bad after that.”
    Her face returned to the expression that had met him at the water with the sailor greeting and the pat on the butt. He understood that one best, along with the wet one he saw as they stood in the shower. She admonished him not to get her hair wet, which he did immediately. It was too crowded for her to do anything but kiss him in response—a tongue-probing kiss that made it even more crowded inside the shower.
    They made love with her hair wrapped in a towel. Her breasts were cooler than the rest of her, and he liked to feel them with his face. This was what he meant when he had told her it was perfect—the coolness of her breasts and her hair pulled wet and straight as it lost the towel. For the moment he didn’t want anything more, and he didn’t envy
Victor
her company or their separate bedrooms or whatever else they shared.
    Poor old
Victor
, he thought, as he lay beside her with his eyes closed and relaxing into sleep. If he were in
Victor
’s place, would he have the same tolerance? Not likely. Not in a million years.
    Georgia got up and walked into the bathroom. This had been an awkward time once, but she could get up now and do what she wanted, to rejoin him in bed or kiss him softly on the forehead to signal she was leaving. And he could do whatever he wanted—which was? he asked himself, without trying to answer, without even opening his eyes.
    When he got up an hour later, he saw that Georgia had cleaned the table. On it she had left a note in her elegantly looping handwriting. It read, “Need to drop by the office. I’ll pop in later if you haven’t gone out. G.”
    “Okay, G,” he said aloud. “Pop in whenever you want.”
    He tested the kitchen door and found it locked as he expected. She had a key and was much better about keeping it locked than he was. He of all people, she often reminded him, ought to remember to lock his doors. Yes, he admitted frequently, she was right. He ought to be able to remember, but he had become used to leaving it unlocked back in the days when she had to slip secretly out of her house after he had gone to bed. She would lift the covers and crawl in naked beside him with desire too strong to wait until he was awake. That was before she told
Victor
, before
Victor
showed how understanding a person could be. It was before she and
Sam
and
Victor
had come to their somewhat legitimate