That was the indignant, incredulous cry that bolted from his mouth, like some syllable-bound bullet. She dragged him off her body, and he felt that horrifying weightless glee that human flesh knows, between land and ocean.
"Wait!"
His last word -- Chilton always had to get in the last word, didn't he? -- as she threw him into those serene waves. The shock wasn't the warm, salted water (though that had hurt), nor was it the secondary panic of sharks; rather, it was the explicit evidence of what event had just occurred. Or, rather, the absence of what had occurred.
Karla Sofen had not killed him. Her command of restraint -- was that directed to him, or herself? Because the latter certainly demonstrated unquestionable self-control. The latter listened to him, and his persuasions, and now he was soaking in the Atlantic, his brain still in tact.
As Chilton kicked in the ocean, keeping himself head above water (formal wear was not intended for swimming, and the weight of his cotton slacks reminded him of his remaining predicament), he looked up to watch Karla in the air. Here he was, seabound, oily and versatile and embracing his personal darkness -- and there she was, airborne, fighting for control and personal freedom.
Devouring a gulp of air, he started to swim to the shore.
no subject
That was the indignant, incredulous cry that bolted from his mouth, like some syllable-bound bullet. She dragged him off her body, and he felt that horrifying weightless glee that human flesh knows, between land and ocean.
"Wait!"
His last word -- Chilton always had to get in the last word, didn't he? -- as she threw him into those serene waves. The shock wasn't the warm, salted water (though that had hurt), nor was it the secondary panic of sharks; rather, it was the explicit evidence of what event had just occurred. Or, rather, the absence of what had occurred.
Karla Sofen had not killed him. Her command of restraint -- was that directed to him, or herself? Because the latter certainly demonstrated unquestionable self-control. The latter listened to him, and his persuasions, and now he was soaking in the Atlantic, his brain still in tact.
As Chilton kicked in the ocean, keeping himself head above water (formal wear was not intended for swimming, and the weight of his cotton slacks reminded him of his remaining predicament), he looked up to watch Karla in the air. Here he was, seabound, oily and versatile and embracing his personal darkness -- and there she was, airborne, fighting for control and personal freedom.
Devouring a gulp of air, he started to swim to the shore.