conviction in it. However tardily, it dawned on me that there was no percentage in playing cute with someone dangerous. Since I didn't know what else to say, I said, "Then I guess I'd better go." I took a last swig of my giant whiskey, then put my glass on the coffee table and started standing up.
I didn't get very far. She shouldered me across the thighs and knocked me backward, then threw herself on top of me and gave me one hard, assaultive kiss, for which I wasn't ready. My lips were locked against my teeth, pinned down as helplessly as a losing wrestler's shoulders, and I could neither kiss back nor escape. Her breasts squeezed down against my shirt; her loins briefly wriggled in my soaking lap. Then she pushed up with a wicked shove against my arms, and suddenly was standing over me.
Her blouse was twisted, her chest heaved, and there was fury in her eyes. In a voice that whistled slightly through bared teeth, she said, "You don't toy with Lydia. Lydia toys with you." Her hand shot forth in an imperious gesture that pointed toward the door. "Now go."
People being animals, I was no longer so sure, after that bizarre and violent kiss, that I wanted to. But the decision had been made. I was being banished. For the best, no doubt, but something nagged at me, something that I couldn't figure out. Through the whole interview with Lefty's daughter; I thought I'd handled myself pretty well. Kept my wits about me, got some information. So was it only my wet, cold shorts that made me feel sheepish and defeated at the end?
Like a woozy fighter; I got up slowly from the couch. I didn't say good night and my hostess didn't move to walk me to the door.
But as I was crossing from the living room to the foyer, she called my name. I stopped and turned to face her. Her hands were on her high Cuban hips. In an age-old combination that everybody knows spells doom and that guys always fall for anyway, her eyes had softened, wide and dreamy, but her lips were curled into a snarling dare. "Come back some time," she said. "When you're feeling less like a tease and more like a man."
13
We've all had evenings when it's 8:30 but feels like 1:00 a.m.
This has to do not with fatigue but with bewilderment, sometimes helped along by a titanic cocktail in place of dinner. At such junctures, it seems that time has hiccuped, that the world is a formerly familiar room in which the furniture's been moved; as with a jazz record started in the middle, you're tantalized but can't quite find the tune. This is how I felt as I dragged my damp ass out the front door of 2000 Atlantic.
What the hell had gone on in there? Lydia had probed me, aroused me, jumped my bones, and ended the performance with a credible attempt to crush my masculinity. Along the way, I'd learned— what? That she was a nympho, maybe, but a tough cookie for sure, and the heir to Lefty's little empire. And that there was a guy named Mickey Veale, presumably involved in water sports, who she didn't like at all.
Fine, but where did it get me? It got me back onto my bicycle, in underpants by Stoli. Underpants that would not dry quickly in the humid air. At least the evening was warmer than the refrigerated condo.
I rode. Gingerly, I addressed the question of where I was riding to. The sane course, as always, was retreat. Home to a bathrobe and some music, some simple food and bed. I knew that but I didn't go there. Feeling utterly peculiar, smudged beyond my own outlines, I found myself pedaling toward Redmond's Boatyard. I needed to see Maggie.
But wait—needed to? Why? I barely knew her. And the idea of needing someone was as scary as any of the things I'd fretted about that day. Still, that's how the thought broke over me: I needed to see her. You can't undo a thought; once I'd thought it I was stuck with it.
So I headed from the ocean to the Gulf. It's a short ride; it reminds you how tiny Key West is, how comfortingly insignificant. Except this evening I was having a tough
I didn't get very far. She shouldered me across the thighs and knocked me backward, then threw herself on top of me and gave me one hard, assaultive kiss, for which I wasn't ready. My lips were locked against my teeth, pinned down as helplessly as a losing wrestler's shoulders, and I could neither kiss back nor escape. Her breasts squeezed down against my shirt; her loins briefly wriggled in my soaking lap. Then she pushed up with a wicked shove against my arms, and suddenly was standing over me.
Her blouse was twisted, her chest heaved, and there was fury in her eyes. In a voice that whistled slightly through bared teeth, she said, "You don't toy with Lydia. Lydia toys with you." Her hand shot forth in an imperious gesture that pointed toward the door. "Now go."
People being animals, I was no longer so sure, after that bizarre and violent kiss, that I wanted to. But the decision had been made. I was being banished. For the best, no doubt, but something nagged at me, something that I couldn't figure out. Through the whole interview with Lefty's daughter; I thought I'd handled myself pretty well. Kept my wits about me, got some information. So was it only my wet, cold shorts that made me feel sheepish and defeated at the end?
Like a woozy fighter; I got up slowly from the couch. I didn't say good night and my hostess didn't move to walk me to the door.
But as I was crossing from the living room to the foyer, she called my name. I stopped and turned to face her. Her hands were on her high Cuban hips. In an age-old combination that everybody knows spells doom and that guys always fall for anyway, her eyes had softened, wide and dreamy, but her lips were curled into a snarling dare. "Come back some time," she said. "When you're feeling less like a tease and more like a man."
13
We've all had evenings when it's 8:30 but feels like 1:00 a.m.
This has to do not with fatigue but with bewilderment, sometimes helped along by a titanic cocktail in place of dinner. At such junctures, it seems that time has hiccuped, that the world is a formerly familiar room in which the furniture's been moved; as with a jazz record started in the middle, you're tantalized but can't quite find the tune. This is how I felt as I dragged my damp ass out the front door of 2000 Atlantic.
What the hell had gone on in there? Lydia had probed me, aroused me, jumped my bones, and ended the performance with a credible attempt to crush my masculinity. Along the way, I'd learned— what? That she was a nympho, maybe, but a tough cookie for sure, and the heir to Lefty's little empire. And that there was a guy named Mickey Veale, presumably involved in water sports, who she didn't like at all.
Fine, but where did it get me? It got me back onto my bicycle, in underpants by Stoli. Underpants that would not dry quickly in the humid air. At least the evening was warmer than the refrigerated condo.
I rode. Gingerly, I addressed the question of where I was riding to. The sane course, as always, was retreat. Home to a bathrobe and some music, some simple food and bed. I knew that but I didn't go there. Feeling utterly peculiar, smudged beyond my own outlines, I found myself pedaling toward Redmond's Boatyard. I needed to see Maggie.
But wait—needed to? Why? I barely knew her. And the idea of needing someone was as scary as any of the things I'd fretted about that day. Still, that's how the thought broke over me: I needed to see her. You can't undo a thought; once I'd thought it I was stuck with it.
So I headed from the ocean to the Gulf. It's a short ride; it reminds you how tiny Key West is, how comfortingly insignificant. Except this evening I was having a tough
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