Matecumbe by James A. Michener Page A

memorable of moves, Melissa was coaxing Joe to a top-rate, all-star performance.
    It was as if they were a medal-winning pairs team in Olympic iceskating. They did nothing to impede each other. Those few imprecise movements went unnoticed. They were a positive complement, like the right wine with the right food.
    While Melissa knelt, perched atop Joe, her tongue painted tiny circles under his ears, below his chin, and then from one side of his chest to the other.
    Pulling him over on his side, she then reached around his body and used her left hand to massage the muscles in his back, pressing his torso tightly to hers with every movement of her pulsating fingers.
    Deftly, she then moved her head toward the lower part of his body. Alternately, she rubbed her face along the sides of both his massive legs.
    Soon, Melissa and Joe were once again consummating their love, swaying to a rhythm that they alone had chosen.
    Before long, their bodies were satisfied, having quenched this morning thirst for love—and for each other.
    In time, Melissa and Joe resumed their normal breathing. And as do even the gods and goddesses of love, they turned their thoughts away from romance and toward the world that lay before them—on the streets of Key West.
    While they showered and then packed, Joe reminded her that she was only about ninety miles away from the shores of Cuba, which was the next great land mass directly south.
    “If I were a native of Key West,” Melissa philosophized, “I’d want to get into a boat as often as possible and ride out in the water, as far west of here as I could. I guess I’m talking day trips, for sunshine, swimming, and fishing. I’d have to go at least once a week. Otherwise, if I didn’t, I’d feel as though I were trapped. Living here—at the absolute end of Highway One—would be like being pinned, psychologically, against an invisible wall—with the only other way out a retreat back to Miami.”
    “You’re right,” Joe noted. “It probably would be restrictive. Aside from Hawaii, this is as far south as you can get in the United States. And you’ve got to go a long ways west of here before you see the shores of Texas. Maybe that’s why the natives of Key West, knowing that they’re at land’s end, so to speak, are always in what seems like constant motion.”
    “Exactly,” Melissa interrupted. “I noticed that yesterday. Even when we were driving on the side streets, away from the tourist areas, there were crowds of people on the sidewalks—pedestrian traffic jams.”
    “That’s what rats do in cages, or what people do when they’re arrested for the first time,” Joe added. “I’ve seen it in my work. When a guy with no criminal record gets jailed, and he’s inside the lockup, waiting to get bailed out, he’ll walk around constantly, from one end of the cell to the other. And, once in a while, he’ll stick his nose right through the bars— on top of the keyhole—hoping to get out of jail the exact instant the guard opens the door.
    “Say, we’re getting kind of negative here, aren’t we?” Joe laughed.
    Melissa followed with a chuckle of her own.
    Soon, as they were leaving the room to check out, Joe advised Melissa to take along a sweater to wear later that evening, because the breezes on Key West are stronger than those on Islamorada.
    “I think I’ll pass on bringing the sweater,” Melissa answered, giving Joe a hug. “Your warmth will be enough.”

    In the center of town, at Mallory Square, they boarded the “Conch Train,” a fifty-passenger, open-air tram. It came complete with soft seat cushions and a talkative guide. The tram was scheduled to take them past some of the island’s more unusual attractions.
    “What’s your favorite color?” Joe asked, as soon as they had jumped on board.
    “Aside from your eyes?” Melissa whispered. “Well, I’ve always been fond of pinks, yellows, and different shades of blue. I’m sort of a nervous, antsy person,