I was gasping now; my throat burned from crying; and gradually I became aware of inhaling the crisp autumnal smell of apples and that the soothing fragrance was coming from Glenna’s hair. She was hugging me, and her hair, still damp from the snow, was rubbing against my face, and her breath was warm in my ear. As desperate to breathe as a drowning animal, I pressed myself against the dips and swells of her body, determined to take whatever air Glenna would relinquish into my constricted lungs, and I kissed her, deeply, greedily, and she kissed me in return, generous Glenna, sharing her cognac-sweetened breath with me.

Yet, for an instant, I wasn’t sure if I was kissing Glenna or a recent acquaintance from an airport bar. It was strange and exciting and painfully disappointing, because I desperately wanted it to be Glenna, and I drew back from her and opened my eyes.

“Are you okay?” she asked, and I combed my fingers through her hair and kissed her again, but now it was all achingly familiar—the slow, exploratory softness of her lips, the stirring insistence of her tongue, and the way she scissored her arms around me, holding on as if she might tumble off the couch and go plunging through space.

We fell back on the leather cushions, my hands caressing her as though the memory of her body’s tantalizing geography had been stored in my fingertips, and I felt the years fall away. Glenna held up her arms, and after helping her pull off her shirt, I nibbled at her ears, and she tilted her head back, and I kissed the graceful line of her neck and the rise of her collarbone. Her bra fastened in front and I unhooked it, and her breasts were fuller and softer but with no less power to comfort, and my mouth went from one to the other. As her breathing quickened, her hand came down to unbutton her slacks, and she rose up, shimmying out of dove-gray wool and then lacy ecru cotton. She was watching me, and from the look on her face, a rousing blend of hunger and uncertainty, you’d have thought we’d never made love before, and she only closed her eyes when my hand moved lower to touch her. Tenderly, she stroked my head, my shoulders, my chest, and let out a long, shuddering sigh, murmuring my name, her hips rising and falling in time to my touch. I knelt on the floor, thrilled by that downy fragrant shadow, lingering at the center of her until her sighs became a more urgent music, and I stood, peeling off my clothes, and then I was on the couch again, above Glenna, looking at her lovely tear-streaked face and wistful smile.

“I love you,” she said, reaching up to guide me, and I assured her that I loved her, too—always had, always will—and when I entered her, a shiver ran the length of our bodies.

“Don’t move,” she said, pressing up hard against me.