Brighton Beach, New York
Twisting on the seat, the young woman looked at the receding figure, watching the old man as he crossed the street. When he was no longer in view, facing forward, “Did you see that old man back there, the way he looked at us?”
As the convertible waited for the red to change to green, the young man did see the old man.
When they began to drive, his eyes had flicked nervously to the rearview mirror and back to the busy, early evening traffic of Neptune Avenue.
Glancing at the pretty, darkhaired young woman sitting alongside him, “No,” he said. “What old man?”
“That old man back there!” she said impatiently. “When we stopped for the light he crossed the street. Remember? And he stopped and stared at you, then at me, almost like he knew us.” Feeling a chill, she shuddered. “I don’t know… the way he looked at us was… weird.”
Placing his hand upon her bare, sunwarmed knee, hesitating… “Back there? An old guy? Nah, I didn’t notice any old guy.”
Coney Island, New York
June 20, 1956
“Four, Mitchie. Get me four!”
The young man looked over his shoulder, “Four? You want four?” as he, with his wife close behind, got into line behind a hairy, barefooted man wearing bathing trunks. “I thought you were the guy that wasn’t ever going to eat lobster.”
Even though it was midweek, the combination of the weekly Wednesday night fireworks display, a near ninetydegree day and the balmy evening had brought thousands of milling people to Coney Island. The boardwalk was packed, but nowhere more jampacked then in front of the blue and yellow clapboard structure with the yellow and blue sign that read:
COCA COLA ― HOT DOGS
LOBSTER ROLLS ― SHRIMP ROLLS
“Yeah, that’s right.” Moving even closer, putting both arms around his waist, rubbing her breasts provocatively against his back, whispering into his ear, “But that was before you made me, mmm…” Nipping his earlobe, breathing her sultry breath into his ear, “eat a, mmm…” Bending her knees outward, into the backs of his knees, causing his knees to buckle forward, flicking the inner ridge of his ear with her tongue, “lobster roll. Mmmm!”
Feeling the soft pressure of Marsha’s breasts on his back and the cool touch of her bare legs against the back of his bare legs, and her warm breath and moist tongue in his ear, even though he knew she was teasing him, even here, even within this mass of people, the feel of her breasts, the brushing of her body and the touch of her tongue brought about the usual, and―really, though, any of the three individually would bring about the very same result and―a part of Mitchell’s body responded.
Leaning to the side, looking down, Marsha saw that she’d gotten the response she’d inspired―and expected. Smiling, taking her arms from about his waist, but pinching his behind in the process…
“Ouch! Jesus, Marcie,” pretending to pout, but truly loving her every touch, “you got sharp nails!”
“The better to pinch you with, my dear.” Backing away, “I’ll get a bench.”
“No,” moving forward as the line shortened, “I’ll need help.” But Marsha was gone and Mitchell, and his stretched fly, were alone in the crowd.
Holding two Coke bottles by their necks in one hand and a bag with fries and eight miniature hamburger buns filled with grilled lobster salad in the other, looking for Marsha…
The multihued light of the setting sun reflecting upon Marsha Lipensky’s face…
Sitting on a bench gazing at the choppy ocean, shiny strands of long black hair moving about her head in the slight, summer breeze, Marsha’s long, slender legs stretched forward, the soles of her sandals pressed upon the bottom slat of the wooden balustrade…
His breath catching, My God, he thought, she’s so beautiful!
Sensing she was being watched, turning her face in his direction…
Crossing her eyes, Marsha stuck her tongue out at him.
Four months from her twentieth birthday, Marsha Lipensky, nee Goldman, was tall―5 foot, 7½ inches tall―and thin, weighing one hundred, thirty pounds. Her luxurious black hair, bound close to her scalp, accentuated her sharp widow’s peak, giving her a pony tail that hung midway down her back. Marsha had an ovalshaped face with a slightly long nose, almond shaped, darkbrown eyes, short lashes and well shaped brows. Her complexion was clear and dark, and was made even darker by a deep tan, producing, if not a stunningly lovely face by “movie star” standards, than certainly a classically beautiful, Semitic appearance.
Marsha wore white, kneelength shorts, a white, shortsleeved cotton blouse and black sandals.
Two months from his twentysecond birthday, Mitchell Lipensky was six feet tall, weighed one hundred, seventyeight pounds, had straight, dark brown hair with, coincidently, a widow’s peak. He had a roundish face, green eyes, long lashes and thick―tending to be scraggly―brows. Mitchell had a well shaped nose, and he, too, was dark complected, also made darker by an early summer tan.
Mitchell wore white shorts, a light blue Tshirt and, not too clean, white deck shoes.
Heads would turn to look at either Marsha or Mitchell singularly, because individually they were both strikingly good looking people, but together, they complemented each other.
“Hi, baby!” Sitting on the bench, placing the bag and bottles between them, “J’ya miss me?”
“Miss you? Yeah! Did I ever miss you… Where’s the grub?”
A burst of light, then, poom, the reverberating sound of the first rocket of the night, that was felt in the chest as well as heard.
As the lights of the boardwalk went on, the fireworks, fired from a barge anchored a half mile offshore started.