Marylin with her face wet and a fringe of hair, like a streak of seaweed, down her cheek!  Getaway, shivery and knobbier than ever, pushing great palms of water at her and she back at him, only less skillfully her five fingers spread and inefficient.  Once in the water, he caught and held her close, and yet, for the wonder of it, almost reverentially close, as if what he would claim for himself he must keep intact.

“Marry me, Marylin,” he said, with all the hubbub of the ocean about them.

She reached for some foam that hissed out before she could touch it.

“That’s you,” he said.  “Now you are there, and now you aren’t.”

“I wish,” she said—­“oh, Getaway, there’s so much I wish!”

“What do you wish?”

She looked off toward the immensity of sea and sky.  “I—­Oh, I don’t know!  Being here makes me wish—­Something as beautiful as out there is what I wish.”

“Out where?”

“There.”

“I don’t see—­”

“You—­wouldn’t.”

And then, because neither of them could swim, he began chasing her through shallow water, and in the kicked-up spray of their own merriment they emerged finally, dripping and slinky, the hairs of his forearms lashed flat, and a little drip of salt water running off the tip of her chin.

Until long after the sun went down they lay drying on the sand, her hair spread in a lovely amber flare, and, stretched full length on his stomach beside her, he built a little grave of sand for her feet.  And the crowd thinned, and even before the sun dipped a faint young moon, almost as if wearing a veil, came up against the blue.  They were quiet now with pleasant fatigue, and, propped up on his elbows, he spilled little rills of sand from one fist into the other.

“Gee! you’re pretty, Marylin!”

“Are I, Getaway?”

“You know you are.  You wasn’t born with one eye shut and the other blind.”

“Honest, I don’t know.  Sometimes I look in the mirror and hope so.”

“You’ve had enough fellows tell you so.”

“Yes, but—­but not the kind of fellows that mean by pretty what I mean by pretty.”

“Well, this here guy means what you mean by pretty.”

“What do you mean by pretty, Getaway?”

“Pep.  Peaches.  Cream.  Teeth.  Yellow hair.  Arms.  Le—­those little holes in your cheeks.  Dimples.  What do I mean by pretty?  I mean you by pretty.  Ain’t that what you want me to mean by pretty?”

“Yes—­and no—­”

“Well, what the—­”

“It’s all right, Getaway.  It’s fine to be pretty, but—­not enough—­somehow.  I—­I can’t explain it to you—­to anybody.  I guess pretty isn’t the word.  It’s beauty I mean.”

“All right, then, anything your little heart desires—­beauty.”

“The ocean beauty out there, I mean.  Something that makes you hurt and want to hurt more and more.  Beauty, Getaway.  It’s something you understand or something you don’t.  It can’t be talked.  It sounds silly.”