“So healthy,” she murmured, caressing his arms and shoulders. She smiled as he dug the Army-issue prophylactic out of his wallet, but it was a sad smile, as if she’d remembered the object in a happier context. She watched as he put it on, which made his fingers clumsy. She remained composed and patient until he managed. Then she lay back and let him in.

“All right?” he whispered.

She drew a quick breath. Started to speak. Stopped. Then said, “It’s been a long time.”

“For me, too.” He pushed her hair back from her face. “But it’s right now.”

“Yes.”

He struggled to hold the moment in his hands. The chemical, rubbery smell of the condom was disconcerting. Her kisses were short and tentative, and he was conscious of all the cigarettes he’d smoked tonight. She kept dipping her head into the curve of his neck and shoulder. After a bit she gently pushed him off.

“What’s wrong?” he said.

“Nothing.” She rolled over on her stomach. “Comme çi. Vite.”

Like this. Hurry.

He knew you could take a woman this way. He’d seen pictures of it in Jock’s raunchy comic books. It didn’t seem a thing real people did.

On the other hand, he’d never be a real person again.

He moved on top of her carefully. She had to help him settle between her legs and she reached back to guide him inside. He felt inept and foolish for exactly two seconds. Then his body clicked into hers like a puzzle piece. He fell down on his elbows, his open mouth against the nape of her neck. Her fingers closed tight around his wrist and she turned her lips into his palm.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Like that. Go. Just go. Right now. Now.”

Now became then and tumbled from Kennet’s hands so fast, he was embarrassed. Over the pounding of his heartbeat, he could hear from the other bedroom the rhythmic creak and groan of the bedstead against the wall. Jockstrap was barely warmed up. By comparison, Kennet was a terrible lover. But Solange shushed his apologies and rolled them onto their sides. She clasped his arms around her from behind and burrowed back into his chest as if to press clear through him. Her thin body trembled. After a beat, Kennet realized she was crying.

The room filled with her dead husband’s presence and Kennet felt profoundly ashamed. He’d gotten it wrong. All wrong. Her “hurry” hadn’t been out of dire need or desperate passion. It wasn’t hurry, I need you. It was hurry, get it done. She needed it over with so they could get to this.

“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes with a corner of the sheet.

“Do you want me to leave?” he whispered.

“No, no more leaving,” she said. “No more going. Stay. Hold still. I just want things to stay still.”