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was lean, with a large nose. He put his beer to his
lips. Leaned his head back, and took a long drink.
When he was fi nished, he doubled over, trembled,
and said loudly, “It tastes so good when it hits
your lips!”
Warm, Inside
Charlotte lifted her eyes, and in the mirror she
could see two boys—mere boys! Neither looked
more than fi fteen or sixteen! Babies dropping their
voices a couple of octaves in a desperate desire to
sound like men! Each had a can of beer in his hand.
But this was not allowed! Both were bare from the
waste up. One wore a towel around his waist, only
that and fl ip-fl ops. He had such a tender coating
of baby fat over his cheeks, neck, and torso, it
made Charlotte think of diapers and talcum pow-
der. The other wore khaki shorts and boots. He
was the leaner of the two but still at that mooncalf
stage in which the nose looks enormous because
the chin hasn’t caught up with it yet. He threw his
head back, lifted the can to his mouth, tilted it
almost straight up, drank for what seemed like for-
ever with his Adam’s apple pumping up and down
like a piston, then jackknifed his body and shook
all over, as if in ecstasy, and cried out, “IT TASTES
SO GOOD WHEN IT HITS YOUR LIPS!”
—I Am Charlotte Simmons by Tom Wolfe
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