Miami

Strangely and suddenly to John, they plunged in to the stream of conversation, cold and rushing and out of control but not--he admitted so as not to drown in the initial panic--actually terrifying; pleasant, foreignly so, and familiarly so; but still, how did we get here and where are we going.

Jane offered a smile, beautiful and priceless and unpaid for, and John accepted, feigning implicit acknowledgement that it was a gift due, so as not to give away the fact that he failed to fully understand the custom or occasion, replying "Yeah, I've been." (To Miami, it was; that was the subject, or was becoming, blooming like a fire) Stall, recollect, prepare, advance. "Why, you going?" Such rote gratitude.

It began, so it continued, throwing the ball back and forth in the game, the grenade back and forth across the field. Landing in John's hands now, then quickly out, and his wild gleeful horror subsiding a little as Jane held it fearlessly with its blazing fuse, her eyes brightened by the danger, a dazzling kamikaze, and next back to John, all scorched thumbs and fumbling. It's almost out, It's going out, he thought, he reacted, as he played the wild sport, in disbelief of the joy he felt and the skill he exercised, while aching to quit it all lest somebody win or lose. So deciding, John issued inwardly an order as a plea: Stop, and won't that be nice for us, and isn't that by itself enough. "That sounds fun," he smiled, but Jane saw the signal.