They made use of the fresh baby carrots they found in the refrigerator, of the jar of strawberry jam, of the canned sliced peaches. They made themselves slick with olive oil. Their knees slipped on the linoleum, they fell, laughing. In the dining room he bent her over the sideboard and, lubricated already, gave it to her in the French manner, as she’d called it the first time, when he’d asked if she wanted it that way. (“I’ll let you, if that’s what you mean.”) A shaft of light fell over them from the kitchen, and he spread her buttocks and watched the livid rim she made around his cock. Her muscles fluttered. She brought his hand around to her front and made him rub her where she liked. He pulled out, almost, stopping at the edge of the rim, slowly started again. She let out a groan. He felt like a god. She worked herself, pressing his fingers with hers. And when he came he pushed in deep, rattling the decanters on the sideboard, the orgasm like a long wave that rose slowly, slowly, to an unbearable height, and then slowly, slowly faded.

Out in the living room she put on an Andrews Sisters record and danced around the room to “Rum and Coca-Cola,” pulling her oiled hair up, a shiny nymph, while he watched from the sofa, trying to stroke himself back up. He was aching and depleted. She sang off-key, her voice too low for the melody—but the next number suited her better: “Bei Mir Bist Du Schön.” A dim, red-light melody, a minor key, a strutting tempo. She flung herself back against the grizzly bear by the bookcase. He beckoned to her and she came to him and pulled him to the rug. Straddled his head and bent down to swallow him whole. She could always bring him back from the dead. He buried his face up into her, the dusky scent of her that he loved.

Then the windows stood out from the gloom, and suddenly—it always seemed to come so suddenly—it was time to go.

They lay on the rug, on pillows, a quilt spread out beneath them, tracing each other. Nothing was barred. He could know her completely. He knew places on her body that she would never know herself. He hid nothing from her either—mostly. He was shy of the calluses on his feet and kept them away from her. He clenched tight when her fingers went between his buttocks.

“Say my name,” she whispered, tugging at his armpit hairs, and he said it, and she smiled and kissed him. “Now tell me you love me,” she said.