I had thought they were finished, hearing their laughter and mumbling for a while before silence. But then as suddenly as they had started, Aunt Jewel, Hakim, and my bed began making the love music again. It was much later, well after two, so they were probably confident I was deep in sleep and even the weeks-awaited release of their passion couldn’t wake me. They exercised little restraint this time, as the knocking and squeaking were fast and loud though their own noises remained tame compared to the bed. As Hakim finally allowed himself to groan and Aunt Jewel made high-pitched sighs, they were unaware I was taking mental notes, searching for clues to their love within the music, naïvely thinking I would be able to use them to determine when I was just fucking and when I was making love. They now drowned out Ma’s snoring in the other bedroom. I could hear they were talking to each other sometimes, in between the heaves of my mattress springs when I could tell they were changing around. She was probably telling him she loved him, and he was probably speaking to her in his different language. The “oohs” and “ahhs” were no longer muffled as they had been, so much so that I had almost gotten up and pressed my ear to the door. I imagined them tumbling and turning, moving against each other in a dark room that fooled them into thinking they were totally alone. Aunt Jewel moaned and panted for what seemed like hours as I rubbed my tiny spot the way Leroy never did. Finally, after Hakim began to suddenly moan in perfect time with her, and after she called his name several times, so high and fast each call began to sound like one word, all the noise stopped. I wondered if they had made a baby, the right way this time. Let down that I hadn’t been able to listen to the love music until morning, I settled for the hiss of the radiators until I finally fell asleep.

I WASN’T SURPRISED the recently reunited, already honeymooning Jewel and Hakim were the only ones in a good mood over Saturday breakfast. For Jewel’s going-away meal, Ma had pulled out all the stops. She had bought bacon still on the rind instead of the usual thin, crispy strips we bought at Aldi’s. She scrambled an entire skillet of fluffy brown eggs, whipped and seasoned perfectly. Her pancakes came out thin, light, golden, and exceptionally round. Not one lump interrupted the smoothness of her grits. We poured honey on wheat toast from a jar where the honeycomb stood stuck in time. She had made sausage patties from a pack of round meat that she further seasoned with Lawry’s and crushed red pepper. A gleaming pitcher of orange juice sat in the middle of our small table. The adults sipped coffee while I gulped milk.