"To me, dancing is poetry as written by the feet."
He relieved her of her napkin and ice-cream dish, eager for suitable
reply to this syrupy observation.
"Speaking of feet, have you seen the show at Forest Park Highlands this
week?"
"No."
"Well, really remarkable. There is an armless fellow there who eats and
juggles, even writes, with his toes."
"Indeed!"
"Sometime if you would honor me by--by accompanying--I--er--Becker, did
I understand the name to be? I wonder if by any chance you are related
to Ben Becker."
She turned upon him with the immemorial sense of a point about to be
scored, her eyes full of relish.
"Why, I think I'm slightly related, Mr. Penny. He happens to be my
father."
He whacked his thigh.
"You don't tell me! Why, I've bought rope and twine from your father for
three years! A mighty fine gentleman, there. Well, well, this is a small
world, after all."
She noticed his large, protuberant Adam's apple throbbing with the
accelerando of pleasure, and a thaw set in between them. He let his arm
drape over the back of her chair, a stolen sense of her nearness
dizzying him.
Pages:
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93