Not even the Air Force pilot with the Alsatian. No man had ever dreamed his fingers through it. Grace’s hair was fan- fiction red, gorgeous if difficult to wrangle and dry. The kind you could do anything with, barrettes, half-ponytails.
Well, what were they? They were young is what they were. Generally she came on weekdays, at odd times, to avoid being paired with eejits like these. She wore her Goatboy Soaps top and her bleach-stained Lycra pants and on Saturday evenings she swam in the pool, whole place to herself, taking long, luxurious breaststrokes through the green, palmy water.Įverything she did, come to think of it, was to avoid being in the same places as these two, with their sunglasses and their brunch elbows. No men, nothing harder than a lump of cancer in the place. Most recently she’d started up again at a Health Works for Women Fitness Center. Nobody belonged to a gym back in County Mayo but here she’d joined a Lucille Roberts once upon a time. And the boys got their clothes at the gyms, too, these fancy gyms. These days, especially in America, men got their muscles at the gym. Dark-haired and bearded, wearing a sleeveless shirt and nice. The girl was twenty-seven to thirty-two, that pitiful age when unmarried women became Cujos beneath their thin, bronze skins. Oh bloody fuck, thought Grace Magorian when she saw the two of them coming toward her at the starter.
