She looked at him mournfully. She admired his backside as he fetched a blue towel from his bathroom. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. He seemed so clean anyway, his fair 215 skin, his light brown hair, there almost seemed to be no point. “She will take her risk,” she answered.
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