No Daughter of the South by Cynthia Webb Page B

Bridge. Good name for it,” I added.
    Johnny nodded and started the car.
    My boots were damp and sandy. I slid out of them again and stuck my feet back up on the dash, where the air-conditioning could blow up my mini-skirt and cool things down a bit.
    Johnny slowed down as we approached the bridge. I tried not to hold my breath. I didn’t want him to notice how nervous I was as we began to bump-bump across the wooden planks.
    About halfway across, Johnny put his hand between my legs. He just rested it there for a moment and then he gently undid the snap at the crotch of my body suit.
    My body remembered Johnny inside me a thousand times. It remembered what it felt like the first time I came with Johnny inside me, when I thought that feeling was my secret and the secret of the universe, the thing that would save me, would save us all. My body was remembering all that, reading all that in the movements of his fingers. Then my brain was remembering the pain, and all the years I’d tried to forget him and all things I’d done trying to forget him.
    Sammy was there, suddenly, inside me, as real as if she’d been there in the car with us. I felt shame, then, and I’d never felt that way about sex before. I knew—and was surprised by the depth and certainty in me of the knowledge—that the theme of my life was not sex of every sort, at every opportunity anymore. And that there were things and even people who were more important to me, and provided more satisfaction.
    “We’re not going to fuck,” I said.
    Johnny’s hand left me. He said nothing. Not a muscle moved in his face.
    “I’m not gonna fuck you,” I repeated.
    No answer.
    Frustrated by his silence, I asked sarcastically, “You understand what I’m saying?”
    “Yeah. I got it. You fuck everything else that moves, but you’re not gonna fuck me.”
    “I guess you got it,” I said.
    The car was stopped in the middle of the bridge.
    “Let me drive,” I said.
    Johnny shrugged, got out, and walked around to the passenger door, while I was scooting over to the driver’s side.
    We drove in silence for a long while until we pulled up to a stretch of grass by the side of the road.
    Finally, Johnny said, “We’re not going to fuck but were going to swim?”
    “Yes,” I said. “Monkey’s Hole.”
    I got out, and ran through the grass to the woods. Then down a narrow path between the trees. I remembered the way, but the distance was shorter than I had thought, so I nearly ran right into the spring. It was a deep, clear pool of cold water. The white sand bottom glimmered as if through glass in some places, while dark green weeds swayed in the center, and fish darted.
    I stripped off my clothes. That was easy enough, since I hadn’t re-snapped my body suit. Then I ran out into the cold, cold water, up to my shoulders.
    Johnny took longer to get undressed. He had to untie his shoes. There were all those buttons on his shirt, and the buckle on his belt. But he was finally naked. The sight of his body in that harsh sunlight was a shock to me. It wasn’t that I was repulsed. Actually, I found his pot belly, and all the little sags and imperfections of time, endearing. The boy I’d married, and left, and who was gone for good now, was not the same as the man he’d ripened into, this middle-aged small-town guy with love handles. I didn’t even know this guy. Not really.
    Johnny gave a familiar yell—our football team had been the Port Mullet Rebels—and plunged into the water, diving under and resurfacing at the other side.
    “You have to be so noisy?” I asked.
    “Sure do,” he called back. “You want the water moccasins and the alligators to keep their distance, don’t you?”
    I’d be damned if I was going to give him the pleasure of seeing me act scared.
    Johnny disappeared underwater again. I felt something brush against me. Then my legs were pulled out from under me, and I was going under.
    After a moment’s panic, I realized it was Johnny. I