another, never staying
with any one fad, phase, or doomsday cult for long. “Look how much
it did for Ben Franklin?” she once posed. Her next big idea had
been to sail around the world naked. How could they do that now?
No-one could use an astrolabe like Mila. Besides, wasn’t it
Edwina’s crazy idea that had gotten Mila killed? Maybe she should
stay put for a change. Sure, somewhere Ben Franklin was cackling.
Let him. He’s dead anyway.
“I’m glad you came, too,”
Reynolds said, gripping her hand a little more tightly as they
walked through the gently lapping surf on the moonlit beach. No-one
else was there except a crab that had made a Polish boy cry
earlier. The sea and the moon was all for them and it was
beautiful—it was romance. “I feel I have a lot to make up for.
Maybe you’ll let me keep making it up to you?”
“Sure,” Edwina said with a
blushing smile. “I’d like that. But, y’know, it doesn’t help that
we’re strolling along the exact same stretch of beach where—”
“You’re a very special girl,
Deezen,” Reynolds announced suddenly, turning to meet her gaze.
He’d never looked more Hispanic, nor less sane.
“How so?” Edwina asked,
expecting to be flattered, but sensing something was
wrong—ass-over-tea-kettle wrong.
“The way you make me feel,” he
explained, the soothing waves adding a poetic meter to his speech,
a pentameter or something, one of those. “I get to see plenty of
good-looking girls, what with my dad’s competition and all. They do
nothing for me, Edwina!”
“You’re gay?”
“No! Of course not,” he quickly
disagreed. A little too quickly. But then, at what speed does a
straight man deny being gay? “I find them all sexy, desirable. But
they never arouse me. Looking, touching—I
remain as limp as a dead monkey.”
“And I’m different?” she
inquired. She hadn’t been prepared for this sort of confession. She
had left her cassock at home. But somehow his opening up made her
feel more rooted, more real. She could stay here. She could not
flit away to the next notion. Unless this itself was another one of
her wacky ideas! Oh, Edwina, you’re a riddle to yourself. At least
you have a killer bod.
“You make me as rigid as a
dictator’s rule,” he admitted bashfully.
“If anyone else were saying
this,” she said, after some consideration, “I’d probably kick him
in the balls, spit in his pain-gaped mouth and leave before I’m
tempted to do worse. But somehow, I know you’re sincere.”
“I am,” he agreed, holding
Edwina’s hand to his chest so she could feel the authenticity in
his beating heart. A good, healthy heartbeat; he clearly kept his
sodium levels low. “And it’s true. Last night I erupted like a
marshmallow volcano thinking of your beautiful body intertwined
with mine. It’s been… years, maybe my whole life, since I felt like
that.”
“But why?”
He let her hand drop and turned
away, his Mexican fire building like an overheated jalapeno.
“This curse, Eddie! The Curse
of Burt Reynolds!” he held his hands out like claws, the fearsome
claws of a Mexican soap opera star. “I’ve always felt like a nancy
boy, no better than a crumb hanging obscenely from Burt Reynolds’s
mustache. But you—you make me feel like more of a man than any
Reynolds, even Debbie.”
Edwina walked away from the
shore toward drier land, leaving Reynolds in the mire of anxiety,
suspense, and the need for approval. He’d once lost a horse in that
mire and didn’t like it one bit. She kicked at an abandoned beach
fire, the blackened driftwood rolling resentfully away.
“Well,” she said at last,
“while we’re on the beach, we might as well break out the
marshmallows.”
“I didn’t bring any—oh!” he
gasped. “I see what you mean!”
The time for hesitation was
over and this Hispanic Hamlet seized his beloved not as a monkey,
not as a Reynolds, but as a man. He kissed her passionately, so
passionately she could
with any one fad, phase, or doomsday cult for long. “Look how much
it did for Ben Franklin?” she once posed. Her next big idea had
been to sail around the world naked. How could they do that now?
No-one could use an astrolabe like Mila. Besides, wasn’t it
Edwina’s crazy idea that had gotten Mila killed? Maybe she should
stay put for a change. Sure, somewhere Ben Franklin was cackling.
Let him. He’s dead anyway.
“I’m glad you came, too,”
Reynolds said, gripping her hand a little more tightly as they
walked through the gently lapping surf on the moonlit beach. No-one
else was there except a crab that had made a Polish boy cry
earlier. The sea and the moon was all for them and it was
beautiful—it was romance. “I feel I have a lot to make up for.
Maybe you’ll let me keep making it up to you?”
“Sure,” Edwina said with a
blushing smile. “I’d like that. But, y’know, it doesn’t help that
we’re strolling along the exact same stretch of beach where—”
“You’re a very special girl,
Deezen,” Reynolds announced suddenly, turning to meet her gaze.
He’d never looked more Hispanic, nor less sane.
“How so?” Edwina asked,
expecting to be flattered, but sensing something was
wrong—ass-over-tea-kettle wrong.
“The way you make me feel,” he
explained, the soothing waves adding a poetic meter to his speech,
a pentameter or something, one of those. “I get to see plenty of
good-looking girls, what with my dad’s competition and all. They do
nothing for me, Edwina!”
“You’re gay?”
“No! Of course not,” he quickly
disagreed. A little too quickly. But then, at what speed does a
straight man deny being gay? “I find them all sexy, desirable. But
they never arouse me. Looking, touching—I
remain as limp as a dead monkey.”
“And I’m different?” she
inquired. She hadn’t been prepared for this sort of confession. She
had left her cassock at home. But somehow his opening up made her
feel more rooted, more real. She could stay here. She could not
flit away to the next notion. Unless this itself was another one of
her wacky ideas! Oh, Edwina, you’re a riddle to yourself. At least
you have a killer bod.
“You make me as rigid as a
dictator’s rule,” he admitted bashfully.
“If anyone else were saying
this,” she said, after some consideration, “I’d probably kick him
in the balls, spit in his pain-gaped mouth and leave before I’m
tempted to do worse. But somehow, I know you’re sincere.”
“I am,” he agreed, holding
Edwina’s hand to his chest so she could feel the authenticity in
his beating heart. A good, healthy heartbeat; he clearly kept his
sodium levels low. “And it’s true. Last night I erupted like a
marshmallow volcano thinking of your beautiful body intertwined
with mine. It’s been… years, maybe my whole life, since I felt like
that.”
“But why?”
He let her hand drop and turned
away, his Mexican fire building like an overheated jalapeno.
“This curse, Eddie! The Curse
of Burt Reynolds!” he held his hands out like claws, the fearsome
claws of a Mexican soap opera star. “I’ve always felt like a nancy
boy, no better than a crumb hanging obscenely from Burt Reynolds’s
mustache. But you—you make me feel like more of a man than any
Reynolds, even Debbie.”
Edwina walked away from the
shore toward drier land, leaving Reynolds in the mire of anxiety,
suspense, and the need for approval. He’d once lost a horse in that
mire and didn’t like it one bit. She kicked at an abandoned beach
fire, the blackened driftwood rolling resentfully away.
“Well,” she said at last,
“while we’re on the beach, we might as well break out the
marshmallows.”
“I didn’t bring any—oh!” he
gasped. “I see what you mean!”
The time for hesitation was
over and this Hispanic Hamlet seized his beloved not as a monkey,
not as a Reynolds, but as a man. He kissed her passionately, so
passionately she could
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