A última onda do dia

In the last pocket of darkness before the glare of Beachfront Drive, they came to a pause, a timeless pedestrian gesture in these parts that usually announced a kiss or at least a grabbed ass. But she said, “Don’t come any further, somebody might be watching by now.”
“Call me or something.”
“You never did let me down, Doc.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll–”
“No, I mean really ever.”
“Oh… sure I did.”
“You were always true.”
It had been dark at the beach for hours, he hadn’t been smoking much and it wasn’t headlights–but before she turned away, he could swear he saw light falling on her face, the orange light just after sunset that catches a face turned to the west, watching the ocean for someone to come in on the last wave of the day, in to shore and safety.

Thomas Pynchon, Inherent Vice

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