Watching Carolyn sleep off her hangover only agitated me further, so I went to a café and read for a few hours until I had drained the coffee from my cup. When I stepped outside, the humidity almost knocked me back in. It took a second to catch my breath, and by the time I made it back I was a sweaty mess.

Carolyn was awake. She lay on her side, eyes open, holding a pillow in her arms. I didn’t want to fight anymore and tried smiling, but instead flashed her the grin of the polite variety typically offered to passing strangers. I went to the bathroom. She was still watching me when I walked out, the bottom half of her face concealed by the pillow. Thomas weaved figure eights between my legs. I picked him up. Carolyn took a deep breath and tossed the pillow behind her, then rolled to her back and closed her eyes. She lifted her chin and took another deep breath, then arched her back and exhaled in a pleasurable moan. She had lost the shorts and was wearing a pair of black bikini string panties. She bent her legs, lifting her knees in the air, and then ever so slowly moved them apart. I wasn’t sure what the hell was happening, and I held my breath until she had spread her legs as far as they would go. Then she placed her hands on her knees and slowly moved them up, taking the more desirable inner-thigh route. I felt Thomas against my shin and didn’t realize I had dropped him.

I stepped toward the bed. My mouth was watering, and I wondered if this was some kind of game. I didn’t really care if it was, for I wanted her then more than I ever had before. No, it was more than that. I needed her.

I slowly climbed on top of her and she stared into me with her bright green eyes; the world seemed to fade away as it always did when she looked at me. She cupped my face, kissed me tenderly and with love. I couldn’t stop touching her, both of us filled with a desperate hunger that can only ever come after a big fight. Her body was taut, simple, and in this way it was perfect. She removed her panties herself and unbuttoned my jeans, pushing them down with her hands and then with her feet. Soft moans brushed against my chest and neck, my body nothing more than a mess of tingling nerves. I forgot about writing, forgot our troubles. Forgot everything. In this world a man must have success in at least one thing or perish. Something Bukowski once said. Well, I had all the success I needed then, and could go the rest of my life without writing another word as long as I had it.