Savages

289

O lies down and wraps her arms around Ben.

He presses his back against her warm stomach.

“You’d like Indo,” he mutters.

“I’ll bet.”

O strokes his cheek. Warm, soft Ben. She says, “Tell me about it.”

Dreamily, Ben tells her about golden beaches edged in emerald necklaces of jungle. About water so green and blue that only a stoned God could have dreamed up the colors. Tells her about crazy, motley birds doing Charlie Parker riffs at the incitement of sunrise, about small-framed brown men and delicate brown women with smiles as white and pure as winter and hearts to match. About sunsets of gentle fire, warm but not burning, satin black nights lit only by starshine.

“It sounds like heaven,” she says. Then, “I’m cold.”

Chon lies down behind O and presses close. The warmth of his body feels good to her. He reaches his arm over her and takes Ben’s hand.

Ben grips it hard.