Back in the main part of the park, there were crowds of people still heading toward the ocean and the muffled sound of far away music coming from the bands. When I got to a conspicuous place along the path, I put the shoebox down where someone would find it. You never know who might just come along and really need a pair of sequined brocade slippers. I kept walking toward the ocean. Another path converged and all of a sudden there was a cute little black chick in a pair of red cutoffs, walking in front of me. Her hair was dyed amber-blond and cut in a short Afro. The cutoffs were as short as they could possibly be and still have had a crotch. There were white calluses on the backs of her heels. The skin of her calves glistened in the sun clear up to where the tight cheeks of her ass disappeared under the frayed cutoffs. If I dumped Ginny, there were plenty of other chicks around. There were plenty of other guys, too. We wouldn't die without each other. None of them were her, however. None of them were me. We would die without each other. Or not. The only way you ever know what's going to happen if you do something or don't do something is to do it or don't do it and see what happens.
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