The Deceivers by John D. MacDonald

lights as they went out. They stood in the darkness until their eyes adjusted to the night and then walked across to the lawn furniture. They sat on two aluminum chaise longues with plastic webbing placed at an angle to each other so that their feet were close but they were about three feet from each other, each half facing the glow of Hillton on the sky. He could see the pallor of her yellow blouse, see the glow of red against her face when she drew on her cigarette, hear the clink of glass on glass when she poured her beer. The breeze came from her direction, bringing with it a hint of perfume and soap.
    They talked idly and comfortably about the school situation, about neighbors and parties and friends. It was effortless conversation, yet throughout it, like a single scarlet thread in a tapestry, he could not cease being aware of her physical presence and his desire for her.
    At last she said, “Now I’m going to do my good deed and send you off to bed as requested.”
    “Please can I stay up, huh? Please? None of the other guys got to go to bed this early.”
    Her laugh was a low warm sound in her throat. “No back talk from you, young man. March! I think I’ll go in. Maybe I can get to sleep while I’m still cooled off. Bucky keeps trying to promote an air-conditioner for the bedroom. But I hate the horrid things, whining all night and huffing air at you that smells like it came out of a subcellar. And, knowing Bucky, I am perfectly aware that he would keep it at maximum volume. I love the summer nights, and the smell of summer coming into the room.”
    They got up and she gathered up the bottles and the glass and her cigarettes and he walked her toward the back door. Ten feet from the chairs she tripped, fought for balance and fell hard. He grabbed for her, but not in time. She gave a thin wail of pain. He dropped to one knee beside her.
    “Are you hurt?”
    She pushed herself into a sitting position. “Darn it, darn it!Graceful, co-ordinated Cindy. I flounder around like a ruptured elk.”
    “What happened?”
    “That damn sprinkler head. We can’t just use a hose. No, Bucky has to have little men come and bury pipe in the yard so we can have little booby traps sticking up all over.”
    “Where do you hurt?”
    “Right on the point of my chin where I cleverly chunked it against one of these damn beer bottles.” He clicked on his lighter and looked at it.
    “It isn’t cut. Good thing the bottle didn’t break.”
    She took his hand and he helped her up. “I just can’t seem to help being the glamorous type,” she said. She took a half step and winced and said, “Ow! The complete treatment. I must have turned my ankle too.” And she laughed, a sound of helpless annoyance.
    He got on the other side of her and said, “Put your arm over my shoulders.”
    “I’ll manage in a minute.”
    “Go ahead. We’ll get you into the kitchen and get a look at you.”
    He put his right arm around her, his hand on her supple and narrow waist. She took six limping steps to the back door. He knew he should release her. But he had the odd feeling that all this had happened before, just exactly as it was happening now. And he turned her into the circle of his arms and began to kiss her.
    She stood rigid and shocked and unco-operative in his arms, not fighting him, but, whenever her lips were free, she said, “No. Please, no. Please, Carl. No.” But her reluctance, her passive resistance seemed to him to be something far away and of small importance. And, after she had stopped speaking, he felt her give a prolonged shuddering sigh, and turn to meet his mouth with hers, turn slightly in a fluid and practiced way so that their prior awkwardnesses of knees that bumped and elbows that were in the way were gone so they fitted sweetly and tightly and with a perfection. Her right arm was around his neck, her left arm around his waist, her palm and fingers firm against the muscles of his back, her mouth working against his.