I thought I heard a little laugh, but I couldn't tell over the sound of my own steps. Now I could see through to the other side, though I could barely make out the charcoal gray color of her shirt. I caught the curve of her breast as she turned to her side. She held a book up to the light so she could more easily read the fading title, barely visible on the spine. Her arm lifted up elegantly; in this light her olive skin contrasted greatly with the darkness around her. She faced away from me. I leaned in using the palms of my hands to gently lower myself closer to the book shelf. Now she had her arms by her side, pushing in at the tops of her breasts. For a moment I imagined what it would feel like to run my lips across the top of her chest.I hadn't taken a breath yet. I opened my mouth wide so I could exhale deeply without making too much noise. Her arms pushed together a little more as she continued to study the book. I watched as the smoothness of her chest gave way to her. Maybe, I thought, she'd be at the house when I got home after the game.She wasn't.The next night, she was still missing from her box seat near third base, and I was getting concerned. I called her after the game, and got her answering machine. She couldn't come to the phone right now, her recorded voice told me, in the classic ambiguous fashion that's supposed to convince burglars that you're really not away -- you're just too busy to answer the phone.So I headed home, hoping to find her there, but when I saw that my house was dark, I turned back toward town and went to Patti's apartment.She wasn't there, either.So I called her mother."Amanda? Is that you? It's Bob Crandall. Yeah. Sorry to call so late. Is Patti there?"She was there. Amanda went to fetch her, and Patti must have been asleep, or highly reluctant, or maybe down the block having a beer, because I waited for a long, long time.I could hear a fairly harsh exchange of comments going on between mother and daughter, well away.
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