An undetermined time later she donned her bathing cap, rose and entered the sea. Clinically trained, he was interested to note that it made him physically ache to watch her.

He left the blanket and made the long trek back to the blue Volks bus, walking quickly but forcing himself not to run. The guitar was where he had left it, on the floor under the second seat. He carried it back to the blanket, burning the soles of his feet piteously on the hot rocks. He felt sure that when he got back she would be gone forever, but she was sitting on her blanket, having evidently taken a long swim and, despite the cap, dampened her hair. She had removed the cap and was sitting back with her weight propped against her arms. From time to time she would shake her head as her hair dried in the sun.

He sat down and began to stroke the strings. At parties and at hired gigs he had stunted on innumerable occasions, trying to make it with a girl by using only notes, no words. Sometimes it had worked and sometimes it had bombed. He suspected that more often than not when it had worked anything would have worked, eyes, smoke signals, a singing telegram or a crooked and wiggling finger.

Nevertheless, one used whatever weapons.

The guitar spoke to her shyly, with forthright, bravely sexless insincerity.

I want to be your friend, nameless miss.

I want to be as a brother to you.

Believe me.

The girl stared out to sea.

I want to talk with you of the fallacies of Schopenhauer.

I want to argue with you about the best art movies.

I want to watch television with you on a rainy afternoon and give you half of my oatmeal cookies.

She threw one quick glance, clearly puzzled.

I want to chuckle at your puns, no matter how pathetic.

I want to laugh with joy at all your jokes, even when they make no sense to me. His fingers flew, making runs and peals of joyous little laughing sounds, and she turned her head . . . and . . . ah, she smiled!

I want to kiss that amused African mouth. Steady, perfidious guitar.

You are a black blossom I alone have discovered on this wonderful dirty-gray beach.

The music now was hardly sexless. It whispered to her, stroked her.

The smile faded. Now she turned her face away from his eyes.

I must bury my face in the round brown of your belly.

I dream now of dancing naked with you, your behind in the palm of my hand.

The girl rose. Picking up her blanket without folding it, she left the beach, hurrying but unable to disguise or ruin her marvelous walk.

Goddam hot-pants guitar.

He stopped playing and saw for the first time a forest of ugly knees. The four jocks, the fat man, the two children and several strangers were standing next to his blanket, transfixed.