made bread, past smooth sweet butter, young lettuce and mustard fillip, reaching the juicy pink ham. She chewed slowly, lips closed, smeared lipstick uptilting the corners of her mouth and giving her the expression of one in a state of ecstatic beatification.
Clem grinned at her rapt countenance and inhaled a lungful of smoke to calm mounting desire. His mouth dry, he was bewildered because he never had felt this aching mixture of desire and affection. Before, with others, it only had been an impelling urge to be released. Maybe because she was so young. Must be out of my head to think of it. Still, in Paris the filles de joie sometimes were jeune filles in age if not in behavior.
Lucy's absorption was not only in this wonderful sandwich, the sandwiches at Bison Hall had been good too. That Bison evening didn't seem so bad now that she was almost in New York City. You had to begin somewhere sometime to get ready, like a plie before rolling up on your toes, or rubbing your slippers in resin before taking off. Feet feel good held tight in ballet slippers. Ballroom dancing would look terrible in ballet slippers. No style. Did The Starlings need to limber up? New blue tarlatan was crisp as lettuce and sequins as sparkling as these new tiny leaves. The dove was the coo of the saxophone, and the rattling thermos top was the cowbell of that cute drummer. He liked me. A mosquito's buzz was Opal's mean laugh. Even dirty old Mr. Brady couldn't help it because that's the way men and boys are. Except Clem.
She opened her eyes. The sunlight on half his face absorbed the rusty beard and he looked half Clem, half strange.
"This is the best sandwich I ever had. Aren't you going to eat yours?"
Her childlike enthusiasm relaxed his tension. He pulled the cork from the Chianti bottle. Drank. "Guess I'm not as hungry as I thought." Queer how you lose your hunger for food when the other hunger hits you. "I had a big breakfast."
The wine was raw but right. Her skin is champagne diluted with rose. Relaxed warmth. Just what I needed. Should drink this stuff more often. In Paris had it with every meal and in between. Sometimes right after breakfast. Flaky croissants and chicoried coffee in plein air sure was the right way to start the day. He remembered his longing in Paris for buckwheat cakes and com syrup, or ham and eggs. Maybe you always wanted something else. Not all Paris for this minute. He looked away from the glistening inch of flesh between the rolled stocking above her knees and the pulled-up skirt. Soon as
