She felt her chest trying to float up, but the blessed undertow, the dreaded reason why she was warned to never bathe in the ocean, sucked her feet down, putting the decision where it belonged, into the hands of God. The intruder was handsomely, even richly, attired in a scarlet riding-suit, embroidered with gold; a broad belt, to which a hanger was attached, crossed his shoulders; his boots rose above his knee, and he carried a laced hat in his hand. She had found a couple of articles about him over the years, blurbs about the opening of a theater that mentioned him. What lends a tragic mockery to all these tender traps of hers was that she was within lawful bounds. He was consumed with desire. She had never said anything so horrible to anyone in her life. “So tell me what happened, all of it! I saw roses!” Shari exclaimed. But she felt his lax figure become rigid. He told some of the particulars. A hollow plunge, echoed and re-echoed by the walls, marked his descent into the water. “It isn’t objections exactly.
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