have made it a condition of her stay in Tangier that she keep the robe on until she was actually on the beach. If she had let it drop from her on the esplanade of the Avenue d’Espagne the way she let it drop as soon as she reached the sand below the esplanade, traffic would have backed up for miles. I vaguely remember some guy appearing out of the shimmer of her penumbra to pick up the robe where she dropped it, but then he disappeared back into the penumbra again and was lost from view.
Everything else was lost from view while Boda filled your eyeballs. To say of her that she was corn-silk blonde, blue-eyed and beautiful is like saying of the star-filled heavens that they are cute. She was breathtaking, awe-inspiring, as flawless a piece of sculptured Danish pastry as has ever been perpetrated. She was also fairly big for a girl, I mean tall. Maybe five-nine or thereabouts, a hundred and forty incredibly well arranged pounds. She carried herself like an empress, if you can imagine a blonde, blue-eyed empress tanned a rich golden honey color all over.
I say ‘all over’ because even before I saw her all over, Boda in a bikini gave the impression of stark nudity. As a matter of fact she was the nakedest woman I ever saw even when fully clothed. Wearing two skimpy pieces of fabric that barely contained what they were supposed to contain, she was unbelievable. The word ‘contain’ isn’t exactly accurate as I have used it here. ‘Restrain’ doesn’t say it a lot better. She didn’t require restraint in any direction, only appreciation. ‘Detain’ is close but still not precise. Ordinary words didn’t apply with precision to Boda.
Later, when she got to be mine and I had reached the point where I could look somewhere else than at her, I used to watch the people on the beach when she walked along it. It was like watching the audience at a well-fought tennis match in slow motion. All the heads simultaneously turning left as the ball goes in that direction, simultaneously right as it comes back, you’ve seen it? Not only the heads of the mecs on the beach but of their poupettes, too. All of them trying to poison her with their eyes because she had so much more of everything than one woman is entitled to. I don’t think she was ever more than vaguely aware of the effect she had, either on the mecs or on the poupettes. If she was, it didn’t matter to her one way or the other. She was like the moon in that, if you’ll excuse another celestial simile. If men wanted to worship her or bitches howl at her, it made no difference. She sailed along in her own track regardless.
About the third or fourth morning I had been a member of the slow motion tennis-game gallery as she passed, the guy who trailed along to pick up her robe emerged from her penumbra and came over to where I was lying on the sand.
“Hi,” he said, squatting on his heels and picking up a handful of sand to dribble through his fingers. He was as recognizably American as peanut butter and jelly. “My name’s Jim something or other.”
“Hiya, Jim,” I said. “Some people call me Curly.”
“Yeah,” he said, with no interest at all in what people called me. “I’ve seen you watching my girl.”
“Your girl?”
His use of the possessive pronoun to apply to a phenomenon like the honey-colored atomic bomb shocked me. It seemed kind of sacrilegious, in a way. But there could be no question about whom he meant. There was only one girl immediately visible to the masculine eye. She was lying in the sun, flat on her back with her eyes closed. ‘Flat’ isn’t the right word to describe Boda lying on her back, either. She lay supine, let’s say.
“My girl.” He moved his head in her direction. “Or hadn’t you noticed me? Most guys don’t.”
“To tell the truth, I haven’t paid you much attention. Are you trying to make something out of something, or something? Sure, I’ve watched her. Anybody who didn’t would have to be
Everything else was lost from view while Boda filled your eyeballs. To say of her that she was corn-silk blonde, blue-eyed and beautiful is like saying of the star-filled heavens that they are cute. She was breathtaking, awe-inspiring, as flawless a piece of sculptured Danish pastry as has ever been perpetrated. She was also fairly big for a girl, I mean tall. Maybe five-nine or thereabouts, a hundred and forty incredibly well arranged pounds. She carried herself like an empress, if you can imagine a blonde, blue-eyed empress tanned a rich golden honey color all over.
I say ‘all over’ because even before I saw her all over, Boda in a bikini gave the impression of stark nudity. As a matter of fact she was the nakedest woman I ever saw even when fully clothed. Wearing two skimpy pieces of fabric that barely contained what they were supposed to contain, she was unbelievable. The word ‘contain’ isn’t exactly accurate as I have used it here. ‘Restrain’ doesn’t say it a lot better. She didn’t require restraint in any direction, only appreciation. ‘Detain’ is close but still not precise. Ordinary words didn’t apply with precision to Boda.
Later, when she got to be mine and I had reached the point where I could look somewhere else than at her, I used to watch the people on the beach when she walked along it. It was like watching the audience at a well-fought tennis match in slow motion. All the heads simultaneously turning left as the ball goes in that direction, simultaneously right as it comes back, you’ve seen it? Not only the heads of the mecs on the beach but of their poupettes, too. All of them trying to poison her with their eyes because she had so much more of everything than one woman is entitled to. I don’t think she was ever more than vaguely aware of the effect she had, either on the mecs or on the poupettes. If she was, it didn’t matter to her one way or the other. She was like the moon in that, if you’ll excuse another celestial simile. If men wanted to worship her or bitches howl at her, it made no difference. She sailed along in her own track regardless.
About the third or fourth morning I had been a member of the slow motion tennis-game gallery as she passed, the guy who trailed along to pick up her robe emerged from her penumbra and came over to where I was lying on the sand.
“Hi,” he said, squatting on his heels and picking up a handful of sand to dribble through his fingers. He was as recognizably American as peanut butter and jelly. “My name’s Jim something or other.”
“Hiya, Jim,” I said. “Some people call me Curly.”
“Yeah,” he said, with no interest at all in what people called me. “I’ve seen you watching my girl.”
“Your girl?”
His use of the possessive pronoun to apply to a phenomenon like the honey-colored atomic bomb shocked me. It seemed kind of sacrilegious, in a way. But there could be no question about whom he meant. There was only one girl immediately visible to the masculine eye. She was lying in the sun, flat on her back with her eyes closed. ‘Flat’ isn’t the right word to describe Boda lying on her back, either. She lay supine, let’s say.
“My girl.” He moved his head in her direction. “Or hadn’t you noticed me? Most guys don’t.”
“To tell the truth, I haven’t paid you much attention. Are you trying to make something out of something, or something? Sure, I’ve watched her. Anybody who didn’t would have to be
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