Things I’ll Never Say by Ann Angel Page B

and the
Lucky Buoy
grinds its way out into the harbor.
    â€œWarren?” Celeste says. “Warren? Warren?”
    Suddenly she is on me, squeezing my face the way you would if you thought a baby was choking on something.
    â€œStop it,” I say, wrestling her hands off me and backing away a little.
    â€œWhat was that? Warren, that is not funny. Don’t ever do that again. It was like some kind of seizure. Not funny at all. What is with you guys? Honestly.” She lights up a cigarette and paces the width of the sidewalk, too big a cat for too small and filthy a cage.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I say.
    â€œFine,” she says. “You want a smoke?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œI meant no, thank you.”
    â€œEven better. And we will not be having children, Warren, so stop picturing them.”
    â€œI wasn’t. That was Charlie. I’m sorry.”
    â€œI’m going to strangle that guy before I leave this place, I swear.”
    â€œDon’t, please!” I snap. “Either of those. Please don’t.”
    She stops the pacing, takes a long draw on her cigarette, then tilts her head back to let the smoke get away, totally Hollywood about it, and I bet she’s not even trying.
    â€œFine,” she says. “I won’t strangle him. As for —”
    â€œWill we ride out and get some more of your pictures?” I blurt.
    â€œWhat, now?”
    It’s not near dark yet, but the day is done with being light.
    â€œNow, later, whenever you say,” I say.
    She looks as if she’s thinking, and I never like my chances with that kind of thing, so I intervene.
    â€œThere’s no telling when they’re going to come and empty the place for good. Looked like things were all lined up for exactly that, as a matter of fact.”
    She does some more of that hot smoky thing with the cigarette until the blue cloud floats off above her.
    â€œOkay, now it is, handsome,” she says, the finest sentence there will ever, ever be.
    â€œThis isn’t working, Celeste,” I say as I struggle to get us even halfway up the Tidal Road. Struggle doesn’t even cover it, because I’ve been weaving and wobbling the handlebars like I have some kind of neurological disorder and practically throwing her right off into the rough grass.
    â€œHaven’t you ever seen
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
?” she asks, sliding off the handlebars and facing me.
    â€œOf course I’ve seen it. So what? The Kid rides the lady around on the handlebars, yes, but there is also a song playing for them at the same time. We don’t have a song playing. And another thing: Those guys jumped into a river from like a million-foot-high cliff and they survived. I don’t think you’re being fair.”
    She has her arms folded and is shaking her head. “And I thought you were a romantic.”
    I wonder if she knows how much she’s killing me.
    â€œYou have impossibly high standards for this sort of thing!”
    â€œHa!” She barks out a laugh and slaps me on the forearm. “Okay, switch.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    Growing impatient, Celeste manhandles me around to where she is in driving position and I am backed up to the handlebars.
    â€œYou have to be kidding,” I say.
    â€œOn the count of three,” she says, and starts guiding me with her surprisingly strong hands. “One, two, three . . . !”
    Magic. I cannot believe I even hear that song coming from somewhere.
    â€œFun, huh,” she says as we glide smoothly up the road toward our destination.
    â€œThe most fun I have ever had in my entire life,” I say.
    â€œI forget; how much farther is it?” she asks.
    â€œAbout a quarter mile. Not getting tired, are you?”
    â€œYou offering to take over?”
    I shake my head vigorously. Then I do something even I find unexpected. For the first time I can think of, I start singing