But she wouldnt. That was the thing that made him ache.
He buttoned his jeans and shifted his hip. He had wanted
practice, with girls, and now he had gotten it, but he wished
it had felt more like practice. It was getting colder, and he
would have to go inside soon. He fished her phone number
out of his pocket and studied it a while in the moonlight,
until he knew it by heart, and wouldnt forget it. Then he
did what he knew he should do, and rolled it into a ball, and
threw it away.
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...