Free Don't Speak to Strange Girls by Harry Whittington

one-way gulf at her — that one expanse he could never recross to her. Of course she had to be young — when they called a star they were ever young, or they wanted something.
    She was standing with toes pointed in, looking at the house as if she’d never been surrounded by precisely Ruth’s brand of quiet elegance before. She tried to be casual, but her eyes were impressed and when she heard him and turned to face him, she looked at him in that same way, as if he were another fabulous appointment in this glamorous house.
    “I’ve seen you so often,” she said. “On the screen, I mean. I feel I know you.”
    He took her proffered hand and looked down at her. He thought that the look of her warned you, if you were smart enough to sense the warning. She could make you joyous or miserable for the rest of your life, but you were never going to relax completely as long as she was part of your existence. There would be no plateaus in the life of the man who got himself entangled with this one. The slender body bore full breasts like overripe fruit. A man could feel his eyes bleeding.
    She tossed her head in a way that shook her shoulder length red-gold hair back from her pale, high-planed face, and her green eyes were intrigued, entranced.
    “I’m Joanne Stark,” she said.
    “Sure you are. So here you are at last.”
    He was still holding her hand. He gave a wry smile and released it.
    “I know you must think I’m forward. Subtle as the front wheel of a bus. I wanted to meet you.”
    “If I’d known, I’d have given green stamps with my phone number.”
    “Do you want to know how I got it?”
    “It doesn’t matter. I’ll tell you how it is. Sometimes I go up in a plane and drop leaflets. Call — ”
    “I found one of them,” she said. “Will that do?”
    “Fine.”
    “Only I still don’t feel right about it. I feel I ought to tell you — now I’m here.”
    These were just words, Clay saw. It did not matter what she said. She was not giving any thought to her words, only to the fact she was talking, the way a kid might whistle in the dark.
    “Why don’t you come into the library?” he said. “Take off your shoes, or something.” He had entered the game with her now. The words didn’t matter. The chatter was to cover the awkward bridge between this first moment and that first drink.
    He nodded toward the library. She smiled and followed him.
    “I’m not intruding?” she said. “Not breaking into anything?”
    “I was waiting for you.” He said it flatly, truthfully.
    Her green eyes glittered. She smiled over her shoulder at him. “I’ve always wanted to meet you. For such a long time.”
    He smiled. She sat at one end of the divan and he flopped on the other, leaning against the arm rest, watching her. Her dress did not cover her knees. She tugged at it once. It was no use. She forgot it, a born philosopher. She turned at the far end of the couch, crossed one leg under the other. He caught his breath.
    “I suppose everybody says that to you?”
    “What?” he said.
    “Always wanted to meet you.” She appeared unconscious of the way she lay back, the way he had to look at her. “But with me, it’s true. I’ve wanted terribly to meet you. All my life.”
    “All your life,” he said. “All of it wouldn’t add up to very long.”
    She shrugged, tossing her red-gold hair back. “It seems a long time to me.”
    McEsters entered with the daiquiris and the sandwiches. He
glanced at the girl lying back on the divan, ankle crossed under her knee,
leg like a golden pillar polished to a sheen. Faint disapproval showed in his
face. He left the room.
    “He looks like something somebody made up,” Joanne said.
    He poured a daiquiri for her, poured one for himself. “I
hope daiquiris are all right. We’ve got a houseful of liquor if you
want something else. You mentioned them — when you called.”
    She smiled, pleased that he remembered. “I love them.” She sighed. “Why, I love