“Okay, okay.” I took the gift and tore away the paper. It was Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast.

“How the hell did you know?”

“Know what?”

“This book. How did you know to buy me Hemingway? How did you know this was one of the only ones of his I’ve yet to read?”

“Oh yay!” she said, sitting on her heels with her hands together. “I was hoping so badly you hadn’t.”

“I hadn’t, but how did you know?”

“I went through your books, and six of them are by Hemingway, but none was this one.”

“Carolyn, Jesus, thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome. I’m so happy you like it.”

I did like it, she was right. And after that we made love, such a beautiful love that during it I forgot all my past loves and lovers and slights of the world, such a sweet love that I wished I could’ve lived in it forever.

2

Carolyn labored over a chocolate cake. She couldn’t leave the damn thing alone, getting up and opening the oven door every few minutes to be assured of its progress. I didn’t say anything, just smiled over the binding of Hemingway at her nervousness to make a good impression on Gene. It was cute in its own way.

When the cake was done, at noon, we went upstairs. Gene’s apartment smelled of honey-baked ham and candied yams. At Carolyn’s insistence she was to help him with the rest of the dinner. He had two drinks already made. He handed one to me and I clinked his glass and took a long swig. It was a mojito.

“You know why I love you, Gene?”

“Because I have a big peter?”

Carolyn laughed so hard at Gene’s unexpected rejoinder that she nearly dropped the cake.

“Yes, Gene, of course, it’s because of your big peter. That’s why I love you.”

He stood grinning.

“You know how many people drink mojitos in the middle of winter?” I went on.

“At least one.”

“Precisely. You’re one hell of a guy.”

He ushered us into the dining room, took Carolyn’s cake, and set it upon the table.

“Carolyn, this looks lovely.”

“Thank you,” she said, proud of herself.

“I didn’t know what you wanted to drink, unlike this one,” he said and motioned to me with his glass, “who would drink turpentine if I were to put it on the rocks, so I waited. I can make most anything.”

“Yeah you can,” I said with emphasis.

“Stratton, please, the adults are talking here,” he said.

“You have wine?” Carolyn asked.

“Of course. Red or white?”

“White, please.”

“White wine in the winter? It’s almost criminal,” I said.

“Stratton, please,” Gene said.