The Endless Summer
I first saw Lilian in a basement bar on Bleecker Street, where the air smelled of gin and the saxophone player was trying to make the trumpet cry. She was twenty-two, from Wichita, and she wore a dress the color of champagne that caught the low light and held it. She sang "I Got Rhythm" the way other people breathe. "You're staring," she said afterward, sliding onto the stool beside me. Her...
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