She taught him how to sail a proa, how to hack open a milk-coconut, how to relish bamboo sprouts. She pawed at him, her hunger for his body making her dizzy with anticipation. He might be unfortunate, but he would scarcely be a fool. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. “He will find it difficult no doubt to alter his style of living,” she said. A sound sleeper, she was not roused by the creaky openings and closings of drawers as Lucy packed a single duffle bag with underwear and soap that was pilfered from a multipack of Zest in the Beck’s downstairs bathroom. shouldn’t be friends. Salvation.
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