he said as she climbed into the cab
of his red Chevy. It was big enough
to remove her pants in, but at the beach
she changed standing beside the truck bed,
a long towel wrapped around her waist.
Goose bumps dotted her arms.
He’d bought a wetsuit at the flea market,
black with a hot pink stripe down each side.
To her surprise it zippered smoothly,
and the suit gave her courage, as suede boots do.
They grinned dumbly, and after that she was his
to teach, watching for the right small swell,
giving her board a push from the back,
telling her when to jump on, helping her set up
after each pitch. In between, the ocean held her.
When she stood and rode, two seconds tops,
they both whooped. She wanted to stop then,
and watched him ride in. She didn’t fall in love
with him. At one time she would have,
and she knew that. And knew how it would go.
She would learn all she could, and thrill him
with doing the thing he loved to do, do it well,
and please him. She would be happy and then tired.
And then she would be more tired than happy.
