It was a bedroom. He remembered it from the other night. An old tin hurricane lamp stood on the nightstand, beside a heavy four-poster bed with a thick blue duvet almost completely buried in dresses, which Alma must have been taking from the open closet and inspecting. The wallpaper was blue, and by the wall opposite the bed stood a heavy oak dresser and mirror. She pulled him toward her by the front of his trousers. Suddenly their movements were rushed and urgent. She unbuttoned and unzipped him, he began gathering her dress up her hips—but it was faster to do it themselves, so he stepped away and hurriedly unbuttoned and removed his shirt, dropped his trousers and underwear in one go, hopping on one foot to free the other, and when he looked up, free at last, Alma was naked—fallen back onto the bed, up on her elbows, legs dangling over the side, so beautiful he felt light-headed. She had a neat V of straw-colored pubic hair. Small, upturned breasts, bright pale where her bathing suit had covered them. A constellation of moles on her stomach, one prominent one, raised like a third nipple, just under her left breast. Her secrets. He could have turned back. He could have apologized again and gathered up his clothes. She would have screamed at him, thrown the kerosene lamp at him and burned the place down, but he could have run, and convinced himself that he was still a faithful man. But he was standing there naked himself, his cock sticking out from him like a bowsprit, and there was no turning back. He must have been standing there at the precipice for a long time, because at last she raised her knees and spread her legs and said, “Do you just want to stare at it all night?”

It was dawn before he knew it. She lay against him, trailing her finger over the soft skin at his hips. They’d kept the lamp burning and no time seemed to have passed, but suddenly the windowpanes stood out blue behind the blinds. He got up on an elbow. She rolled over to see. “It’s late,” she said dreamily. “Or early, depending.”

“Shit,” Henry said, and sat up. It must have been five thirty at least, maybe six. The Art Deco clock on the wall read eleven fifteen. “Shit,” he said again. “Effie’s going to be up soon. If she isn’t already.”

It was the first time he’d said her name, and now Alma looked up at him sharply, and her foot, which had been caressing his calf, halted. He bent down to kiss her and smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear. “I have to go.”

“Don’t,” she said.

“Alma—I have to.”

She smiled and pressed her fingertip to his lips. “I know. It’s okay.”