They’d christened the game room, the kitchen counter, all of the bedrooms. That first night, in the blue bedroom, she’d introduced him to the term coitus interruptus, which was Latin, she said, for “pull out.” And so he’d pulled out and jerked off, flinging a little shower onto her buttocks and onto the backs of her thighs. They made a mess of the sofa, of the throw pillows, of the sheets, until he was spent. But his need for her was insatiable. He kissed every mole. He breathed her pits in, the faint onion and baby powder. He sucked her toes. (She wasn’t ticklish, like he was.) He spread her thighs and devoured her. She was finer, less profuse than Effie. He pressed his tongue in as far as it would go, the taste of her tart like a plum, until she spread herself with her fingers and tapped a tender bulb, the size of a bb, nestled in a hood of delicate skin, and told him that was where the gold was. And when he toyed with it she whimpered and arched her back, told him harder, softer, until she cried and shuddered and squeezed his head between her thighs.

They wandered the house, exploring things. She did. He couldn’t keep his hands off of her. While she looked through the kitchen drawers he nestled his penis between her buttocks and cupped her breasts. He told her again and again how much he wanted her, how beautiful she was, how he never wanted these nights to end. They were the best nights of his life, he said. She told him she loved his hands, how he touched her, that she loved the sharp tan lines around his neck and arms, that she loved his chest and stomach and the line of hair under his belly button, that she loved his voice, his accent, the way he said her name—Awlma—a name she had always hated until now. “Awlma,” she tried, but it wasn’t right. “Say it,” she said, and he said, “Alma,” pulling her hair aside, kissing the back of her neck, “Alma, Alma, Alma.” He was up again, pressing it against her.