At dawn they lay up in the tower, on the floor beside a small bed, on a quilted rug made of random colorful scraps of fabric in no discernible pattern. A floor lamp shone down on them. They’d spent most of the night talking, lying against each other, caressing each other. She told him she’d wanted him since the first day out on the boat, when she’d seen him with his shirt off, his muscles that had come, she knew, from good hard work. And when he spoke, that accent—it made her melt inside. She could imagine a home with him somewhere, his voice always reassuring her. He’d wanted her that day too, he said, when she stripped to her bathing suit and lay on the deck, and all that evening he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off of her. She knew he was looking at her, she said, she’d always angle herself so he could easily see her legs, her ass—he knew it, he said—and after the night they’d stayed up together talking, she said, she knew she would have him. “You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?” he said. “I’m on my honeymoon, you know. I’d have to be a horrible man…” “I’m not usually so sure,” she said. “But with you, I knew. Like it was fate.” They talked about what it would be like if they ran away together, and where they would go. Everywhere. To Hawaii, to South Africa, to India, to Papua New Guinea. She needed the sea. He loved the sea too. Max would give her money—she could get it out of him. They wouldn’t have to work. They would just eat and drink, fuck and sleep. And then they’d settle down somewhere, somewhere pretty and safe. They weren’t talking seriously—he didn’t think they were—it was just idle, but still the subject thrilled him. “I wish,” he said. “I wish I could.” She said nothing.

She was curled between his legs, resting her head on his thigh, running her finger up and down his penis, bringing it back to life, until it was taut and smooth. She touched a sore spot—he winced—and she apologized. He showed her where: a little raw patch. She inspected it closely, and kissed it. She caressed his testicles. He told her about the root of the word: testify. She laughed, lifted them gently to her nose, and breathed in. They smelled like pancake batter, she said.

After a bit of silence she asked, “What kinds of things does she do to you?”

“What?”

“Effie.” She tugged at his hairs. “What’s the wildest thing you’ve done together?”

“Why would you want to know that?”

She shrugged. “I just do.”