She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. The boy she had loved was gone. But I wanted to find out more, partly so I could share it with him. “I was sick of the make-believe. And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend. “I ate their mother first.
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