Of Time and the River & Look Homeward, Angel. Thomas Wolfe

she whispered. “Eugene.”

      He murmured drowsily, and stirred. The little waitress smiled and sat down on the bed. She bent over him and tickled him gently in the ribs, chuckling to see him squirm. Then she tickled the soles of his feet. He wakened slowly, yawning, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

      “What is it?” he said.

      “It’s time to go out there,” she said.

      “Out where?”

      “To the Navy Yard. We promised to meet them.”

      “Oh, damn the Navy Yard!” he groaned. “I’d rather sleep.”

      “So would I!” she agreed. She yawned luxuriously, stretching her plump arms above her head. “I’m so sleepy. I could stretch out anywhere.” She looked meaningly at the bed.

      He wakened at once, sensuously alert. He lifted himself upon one elbow: a hot torrent of blood swarmed through his cheeks. His pulses beat thickly.

      “We’re all alone up here,” said Louise smiling. “We’ve got the whole floor to ourselves.”

      “Why don’t you lie down and take a nap, if you’re still sleepy?” he asked. “I’ll wake you up,” he added, with gentle chivalry.

      “I’ve got such a little room. It’s hot and stuffy. That’s why I got up,” said Louise. “What a nice big room you’ve got!”

      “Yes,” he said. “It’s a nice big bed, too.” They were silent a waiting moment.

      “Why don’t you lie down here, Louise?” he said, in a low unsteady voice. “I’ll get up,” he added hastily, sitting up. “I’ll wake you.”

      “Oh, no,” she said, “I wouldn’t feel right.”

      They were again silent. She looked admiringly at his thin young arms.

      “My!” she said. “I bet you’re strong.”

      He flexed his long stringy muscles manfully, and expanded his chest.

      “My!” she said. “How old are you, ‘Gene?”

      He was just at his fifteenth year.

      “I’m going on sixteen,” he said. “How old are you, Louise?”

      “I’m eighteen,” she said. “I bet you’re a regular heart-breaker, ‘Gene. How many girls have you got?”

      “Oh — I don’t know. Not many,” he said truthfully enough. He wanted to talk — he wanted to talk madly, seductively, wickedly. He would excite her by uttering, in grave respectful tones, honestly, matter-of-factly, the most erotic suggestions.

      “I guess you like the tall ones, don’t you?” said Louise. “A tall fellow wouldn’t want a little thing like me, would he? Although,” she said quickly, “you never know. They say opposites attract each other.”

      “I don’t like tall girls,” said Eugene. “They’re too skinny. I like them about your size, when they’ve got a good build.”

      “Have I got a good build, ‘Gene?” said Louise, holding her arms up and smiling.

      “Yes, you have a pretty build, Louise — a fine build,” said Eugene earnestly. “The kind I like.”

      “I haven’t got a pretty face. I’ve got an ugly face,” she said invitingly.

      “You haven’t got an ugly face. You have a pretty face,” said Eugene firmly. “Anyway, the face doesn’t matter much with me,” he added, subtly.

      “What do you like best, ‘Gene?” Louise asked.

      He thought carefully and gravely.

      “Why,” he said, “a woman ought to have pretty legs. Sometimes a woman has an ugly face, but a pretty leg. The prettiest legs I ever saw were on a High Yellow.”

      “Were they prettier than mine?” said the waitress, with an easy laugh.

      She crossed her legs slowly and displayed her silk-shod ankle.

      “I don’t know, Louise,” he said, staring critically. “I can’t see enough.”

      “Is that enough?” she said, pulling her tight skirt above her calves.

      “No,” said Eugene.

      “Is that?” she pulled her skirt back over her knees, and displayed her plump thighs, gartered with a ruffled band of silk and red rosettes. She thrust her small feet out, coyly turning the toes in.

      “Lord!” said Eugene, staring with keen interest at the garter. “I never saw any like that before. That’s pretty.” He gulped noisily. “Don’t those things hurt you, Louise?”

      “Uh-uh,” she said, as if puzzled, “why?”

      “I should think they’d cut into your skin,” he said. “I know mine do if I wear them too tight. See.”

      He pulled up his trousers’ leg and showed his young gartered shank, lightly spired with hair.

      Louise looked, and felt the garter gravely with a plump hand.

      “Mine don’t hurt me,” she said. She snapped the elastic with a ripe smack. “See!”

      “Let me see,” he said. He placed his trembling fingers lightly upon her garter.

      “Yes,” he said unsteadily. “I see.”

      Her round young weight lay heavy against him, her warm young face turned blindly up to his own. His brain reeled as if drunken, he dropped his mouth awkwardly upon her parted lips. She sank back heavily on the pillows. He planted dry and clumsy kisses upon her mouth, her eyes, in little circles round her throat and face. He fumbled at the throat-hook of her waist, but his fingers shook so violently that he could not unfasten it. She lifted her smooth hands with a comatose gesture, and unfastened it for him.

      Then he lifted his beet-red face, and whispered tremulously, not knowing well what he said:

      “You’re a nice girl, Louise. A pretty girl.”

      She thrust her pink fingers slowly through his hair, drew back his face into her breasts again, moaned softly as he kissed her, and clutched his hair in an aching grip. He put his arms around her and drew her to him. They devoured each other with young wet kisses, insatiate, unhappy, trying to grow together in their embrace, draw out the last distillation of desire in a single kiss.

      He lay sprawled, scattered and witless with passion, unable to collect and focus his heat. He heard the wild tongueless cries of desire, the inchoate ecstasy that knows no gateway of release. But he knew fear — not the social fear, but the fear of ignorance, of discovery. He feared his potency. He spoke to her thickly, wildly, not hearing himself speak.

      “Do you want me to? Do you want me to, Louise?”

      She drew his face down, murmuring:

      “You won’t hurt me, ‘Gene? You wouldn’t do anything to hurt me, honey? If anything happens —” she said drowsily.

      He seized the straw of her suggestion.

      “I won’t be the first. I won’t be the one to begin you. I’ve never started a girl off,” he babbled, aware vaguely that he was voicing an approved doctrine of chivalry. “See here, Louise!” he shook her — she seemed drugged. “You’ve got to tell me before —. I won’t do THAT! I may be a bad fellow, but nobody can say I ever did that. Do you hear!” His voice rose shrilly; his face worked wildly; he was hardly able to speak.

      “I say, do you hear? Am I the first one, or not? You’ve got to answer! Did you ever — before?”

      She looked at him lazily. She smiled.

      “No,” she said.

      “I