Collins turned around and saw Sarah Comstock still waiting, the petition
in her hand.
"Now what's a pretty girl like you doing, wasting her time in politics?"
Collins heard himself ask.
Mrs. Comstock twittered. "I'm old enough to be your mother, Sam
Collins."
"I like mature women."
Collins watched his hand in fascination as it reached out to touch one
of Sarah Comstock's plump cheeks, then dropped to her shoulder and
ripped away the strap-sleeve of her summer print dress.
A plump, rosy shoulder was revealed, splattered with freckles.
Sarah Comstock put her hands over her ears as if to keep from hearing
her own shrill scream. It reached out into pure soprano range.
Sarah Comstock backed away, into the shadows, and Sam Collins followed
her, trying to explain, to apologize.
"Sam! _Sam!_"
The voice cut through to him and he looked up.
Ed Michaels had a double-barreled shotgun aimed at him. Mrs. Michaels'
face was looking over his shoulder in the door to the back, her face a
sick white.
"You get out of here, Sam," Michaels said. "You get out and don't you
come back. Ever."
Collins' hands moved emptily in air. He was always better with his hands
than words, but this time even they seemed inexpressive.
He crumpled the sack of nails in both fists, and turned and left the
hardware store.