stiff-legged way up the beach in search of that absolutely perfect bikini.
And lo and behold off the starboard bow, thar she blows, two soft, eclipsed moons were sinking slowly into the sea.
For the first time Montgomery began to think with the big head instead of the little head.
Lifting his eyes beyond the natural homing point of sexual interest, he saw an absolutely gorgeous waist, bosom and face—for she had turned to climb toward land again, and as she came the water foamed mad-dog spittle around her legs and hips and she was as beautiful and mythical as that painting of Venus exploding from the sea. Oh yes, she was one fine-looking woman.
No. Fine wasn't the word. Fine meant: of superior quality or excellence. That had a near proper ring to it, but it just wasn't enough.
How about perfect? That was in the ballpark, but no closer to home plate than the home run fence— well, maybe, just maybe, as close as center field, but not an inch closer.
Nope, the English language, the French language, the German language, etc., etc., were short on words for a woman like this.
She had . . . magic.
Then he thought: Maybe I'm just being starry-eyed. Up close she'll probably have the kind of teeth you could open a can of green beans with, or maybe a nice, bright bald spot on top of her head, or the kind of bad complexion that begins at the bone.
He decided he had to get closer, secretly fearing that up close his angel would turn out to be a moon howler.
Glancing down at his swim trunks he said to himself, "Lead on, Little Head."
As he went splashing out into the water he thought about the old trick of running into her and saying, "Excuse me, didn't see you wading there," but considering there were only three other people in the water in the immediate area, and they were about thirty feet away, the idea lacked charm.
No, he was going to be cool about this. Splash out to her like some sort of noble water god, make some cute Gary Grant remark and win her heart and soul immediately.
He threw out his chest.
Oh God, the sunlight was hitting her hair and she was absolutely gorgeous; it looked as if there was a halo around her head, and
He fell.
No way to turn it into a dive and look casual. He had stepped right into a nice, slushy mass of sand, turned his ankle and fell.
One moment he's looking at the angel, next he's coughing salt and water and there's a sand burn on his knee and shin.
A wave washed over him, carried him back a yard, pulled his bathing suit down over his buttocks. He clutched at the suit, pulled it up as the water pushed him to shore.
He sat up. His towel was stuck to him and he had lost his suntan lotion and radio, but at least he had managed to pull his suit back up and, maybe, with more than a little luck, the angel hadn't gotten a flash of his lily-white ass sticking out of the waves. He hoped not. It was bad enough to be clumsy and lose your radio and suntan lotion (why hadn't he remembered he was carrying the goddamned radio and suntan lotion?), but to expose one's lily-white to an angel was unforgivable.
He looked around and saw her.
The angel was on the beach and she was looking at him. She had her hand over her mouth, was bent double and laughing; the worst kind of laugh, one of those sneaky kind you hold behind your hand so it won't explode like a bomb.
A wave came in, and his suntan lotion floated up. Neat. The radio cost $19.95 and what floats up? The $2.98 suntan lotion.
He clutched the lotion, looked at the angel. He could see teeth on either side of her hand now, and he was surprised to discover that a person really could grin from ear to ear.
This was beginning to make him a little angry.
He stood up, moved his foot about in the sand, hoping to find the radio. No luck.
"Pardon me," he said, looking at the angel, who looked close to hyper ventilation.
"Wha . . . ?" she tried.
He slapped wet sand from his legs and bathing suit, waded to shore. The towel clung to him like a sash. The
And lo and behold off the starboard bow, thar she blows, two soft, eclipsed moons were sinking slowly into the sea.
For the first time Montgomery began to think with the big head instead of the little head.
Lifting his eyes beyond the natural homing point of sexual interest, he saw an absolutely gorgeous waist, bosom and face—for she had turned to climb toward land again, and as she came the water foamed mad-dog spittle around her legs and hips and she was as beautiful and mythical as that painting of Venus exploding from the sea. Oh yes, she was one fine-looking woman.
No. Fine wasn't the word. Fine meant: of superior quality or excellence. That had a near proper ring to it, but it just wasn't enough.
How about perfect? That was in the ballpark, but no closer to home plate than the home run fence— well, maybe, just maybe, as close as center field, but not an inch closer.
Nope, the English language, the French language, the German language, etc., etc., were short on words for a woman like this.
She had . . . magic.
Then he thought: Maybe I'm just being starry-eyed. Up close she'll probably have the kind of teeth you could open a can of green beans with, or maybe a nice, bright bald spot on top of her head, or the kind of bad complexion that begins at the bone.
He decided he had to get closer, secretly fearing that up close his angel would turn out to be a moon howler.
Glancing down at his swim trunks he said to himself, "Lead on, Little Head."
As he went splashing out into the water he thought about the old trick of running into her and saying, "Excuse me, didn't see you wading there," but considering there were only three other people in the water in the immediate area, and they were about thirty feet away, the idea lacked charm.
No, he was going to be cool about this. Splash out to her like some sort of noble water god, make some cute Gary Grant remark and win her heart and soul immediately.
He threw out his chest.
Oh God, the sunlight was hitting her hair and she was absolutely gorgeous; it looked as if there was a halo around her head, and
He fell.
No way to turn it into a dive and look casual. He had stepped right into a nice, slushy mass of sand, turned his ankle and fell.
One moment he's looking at the angel, next he's coughing salt and water and there's a sand burn on his knee and shin.
A wave washed over him, carried him back a yard, pulled his bathing suit down over his buttocks. He clutched at the suit, pulled it up as the water pushed him to shore.
He sat up. His towel was stuck to him and he had lost his suntan lotion and radio, but at least he had managed to pull his suit back up and, maybe, with more than a little luck, the angel hadn't gotten a flash of his lily-white ass sticking out of the waves. He hoped not. It was bad enough to be clumsy and lose your radio and suntan lotion (why hadn't he remembered he was carrying the goddamned radio and suntan lotion?), but to expose one's lily-white to an angel was unforgivable.
He looked around and saw her.
The angel was on the beach and she was looking at him. She had her hand over her mouth, was bent double and laughing; the worst kind of laugh, one of those sneaky kind you hold behind your hand so it won't explode like a bomb.
A wave came in, and his suntan lotion floated up. Neat. The radio cost $19.95 and what floats up? The $2.98 suntan lotion.
He clutched the lotion, looked at the angel. He could see teeth on either side of her hand now, and he was surprised to discover that a person really could grin from ear to ear.
This was beginning to make him a little angry.
He stood up, moved his foot about in the sand, hoping to find the radio. No luck.
"Pardon me," he said, looking at the angel, who looked close to hyper ventilation.
"Wha . . . ?" she tried.
He slapped wet sand from his legs and bathing suit, waded to shore. The towel clung to him like a sash. The
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