Someone’s touchy. Lori snapped her attention away from the table.

There was Yolanda, a physical therapist with a broad, gummy smile and huge tits, and Casey, who within the first two minutes of knowing me proudly announced she was a homemaker, and asked if I had children.

He molded her to him, his arms wrapping around her like a vise. He could feel the length of her now, every last inch. She was considerably shorter than he was, so her breasts flattened against the bottom of his ribs, and his thigh—He shuddered with desire.

His thigh wedged between her legs, his firm muscles feeling the heat that was pouring from her skin.Simon groaned, a primitive sound that mixed need with frustration. He wasn't going to be able to have her this night—he wasn't able to have her ever, and he needed to make this touch last him a lifetime.The silk of her dress was soft and flimsy beneath his fingers, and as his hands roved along her back, he could feel every elegant line of her.

And then somehow—to his dying day he would never know how—he stepped away from her. Just an inch, but it was enough for the cool night air to slide between their bodies.No! she cried out, and he wondered if she had any idea the invitation she made with that simple word.

His hands cupped her cheeks, holding her steady so that he might drink in the sight of her. It was too dark to see the exact colors that made her unforgettable face, but Simon knew that her lips were soft and pink, with just a tinge of peach at the corners. He knew that her eyes were made up of dozens of shades of brown, with that one enchanting circle of green constantly daring him to take a closer look, to see if it was really there or just a figment of his imagination.

But the rest—how she would feel, how she would taste—he could only imagine.She looks nothing like her pictures in the yearbook. I only recognize her because of the unique structure of her face. High cheekbones and full lips. She’s wearing a lavender dress, simple. On anyone else it would look like a sack. To wear something that simple, you had to be stunning. God, Kit. I seriously want to face palm on his behalf. She has a trail of lavender flowers tattooed down her outer thigh. The Greer of my mind disintegrates into a pile of camp T-shirts, leaving behind this lean, pert breasted beauty with silvery hair and bright strawberry lips. Her right arm is tattooed from wrist to shoulder, with what looks like vines and lilacs. She’s like a canvas for expensive art. Kit’s Greer can make straight girls gay. I know this because I consider it. I watch as she opens the lid to the giant dumpster behind the building and tosses her trash bag inside. She stops on the way back to the cannery to crouch down and talk to a little boy in red shorts who is walking with his mother, then she holds open a door for an elderly woman trying to fit her walker into the tight doorway of a gift shop. And finally, to top off all of her fun, spunky kindness, she high-fives a bum who looks genuinely happy to see her. When at last she disappears back into the cannery, I am hungry for KFC. I wander into an art gallery. I have never viewed art as something you do on weekends. Something you do outside of extra-curricular credit. The smell of paint pulls me through the door. It’s the smell of my stolen nights at painting class. They are acrylic on canvas; Neptune taught me that. The artist is the same for most of the gallery—local I take it. The paintings are of water. But, not the way water is usually painted, with land stationed around it. There is just water, as viewed from above. There are ripples, sometimes disturbed by only a leaf or a feather. Mostly just water. I don’t know that I can say these paintings make me feel things that are good. But perhaps art isn’t supposed to make you feel good, but just to make you feel. Does it cure the numb? I don’t know. A woman greets me; she is lean and tall, her hair tied in a bun on top of her head. I tell her I just moved here and wandered in. She is aloof but friendly. She asks what I did before I came, and if I need a job. I think about the accounting job my mother lined up for me in Seattle, and I automatically say yes. I don’t want to go back to Seattle. I want to stay here. The woman’s name is Eldine, and she owns the gallery, which features the work of local artists. People come from all over America to buy her work, she says, nodding to the paintings of water.

What’s her name? I ask.I suddenly get psychic. I know what she’s going to say before she says it.

Greer Warren. She lives in the old cannery along the waterfront.I feel my head spin. This keeps getting better and better. I can’t call this fate because I came here looking, but it’s still weird how things are manifesting. I look back at Greer’s paintings and wonder if they’re about Kit. The ripples she caused in their lives. The effects of her choices. Kit, the writer, was engaged to Greer, the painter. How perfect. How beautiful. I can picture him living his life in the cannery, being full of art and happiness, and bullshit. They’d have a candy jar filled with Kit Kats, and he’d trace her thigh lilacs with his Kit Kat stained tongue. This is exactly the reason Kit looks awkward in Florida. He was from a place where giant bubbles blew down Main Street, and artists lived in old clam canneries. The magic of this town clung to him.

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