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The Blue Water Grill was the brainchild of NYC restaurateur Stephen Hanson, and his usual attention to detail and quality was evident. We enjoyed a superb meal, a smattering of light jazz, and an evening that never faltered. We talked as if we had known each other forever, with no awkward silences or miscues. We didn't dwell much on the current crisis, but our conversation carried us everywhere, leaping from one subject to another like a word association test on steroids.We talked about literature, and she revealed a fascination with poetry: Wallace Stevens and Emily Dickinson, an unlikely pair indeed. I mentioned my own fondness for Pablo Neruda, and recited "Tonight I Can Write," for her. We talked of politics, Lauren revealing a social bleeding heart with a surprising libertarian economic bent. We shared "most embarrassing moment," stories and laughed until our sides hurt. We talked about musicals, which I enjoyed and which Lauren had a passion for as well. More than once during. Then the four became a comedy of motion. Alice surged forward, legs scissoring under her light red babydoll. She shoved Ryan back away from her aunt. Ryan fell onto the bed, his legs on top of Karen’s naked body. His head nearly went off the edge as he bounced. Alice climbed over her aunt. “You son of a bitch!” She sat on his legs, slapping at his chest. “You bastard! You pervert! Creep!”Rain moved next to her aunt, putting one hand behind the older woman’s head. “Aunt Karen.” Her calm red eyes looked into her guardian’s blue ones. “Aunt Karen. Are you alright?”Ryan turned underneath the redhead, not wanting to hurt her. Her blows didn’t really hurt, but they were annoying. “Alice - Alice let me -”Alice continued to slap at Ryan, ignoring his words. “Beast! Jackass! Scum!” Her naked thighs rested on his skin. Nipples stiffening below her shirt. Her blows started to fall into a pattern. Slap-slap-pause. Slap-slap-pause.Karen looked up at her niece. Her hand came up, stroked the.
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