During all of this, Mrs. U. makes no move to unburden herself but is only training upon me the most rapt attention.

Which emboldens me somewhat.

Every man (I Whisper) is born with a certain store of desire. It is a treasure he has been bequeathed, that he must spend wisely over the course of his life. One moves through the world, finding objects on which to expend it. Blessed is he who finds a worthy object, shaped by God, provided fortuitously unto him, that elicits his longing so strongly that all else briefly recedes and he becomes pure desire. Then, wonder of wonders: that which he desires, embodied, may become pure desire herself, desiring him. Here is what I wish to say, dearest one, trapped as I am on this desolate, godless hillside, surrounded by demons who wish to destroy me: because I have known such a moment with you (the firelight playing across the walls; the dog asleep against the door; the bed shifting beneath us, as if making approving commentary in its own unique language), I may die now, if I must die, knowing I have truly lived.

Mrs. U. stands, approaches, drops her bathrobe.

Is naked before me.

“Praise me,” she whispers.

I do.

I do so.

I praise her. Her legs, hips, waist, breasts, neck, hair, eyes. I praise it all. I am not a captain from Minnesota, I say. I am me, I am Jeremy, one of your Speakers. And I adore you. She blinks twice, startled, but does not look away. I tell her that, Pinioned here, I am able, by a process of listening with focused attention, to know, at any given time, what portion of Main Living Area she is occupying and what she is doing there; that is, in what work she is engaged. She does so much for the household. She is always improving something, arranging something, putting into play something that will cause life to be easier and better for Mr. U. and adult son Mike. Their lives are made better by her, through her care, though they seem oblivious to, and only rarely acknowledge, this. I want her to know that I, who have had ample time (four years, two months) to objectively observe her, find her wonderful, glorious, thoroughly lovable.

When I have finished, she steps forward, kisses me.

“I’m so lonely here,” she says.

“I know,” I say, risking Penalty.

She kisses me again, with more push, more lingering, a slight motion of biting.

There comes a sound from Main Living Area.

She redons her bathrobe, rearranges Podium, shuts all down, goes swiftly away.

Craig emits a long, low whistle.

Lauren makes a tsk-tsk sound.

The Singers emit a series of quick chromatic bursts, as if to inquire: Gosh, in what sort of home do we find ourselves?

But I can hardly sleep for the joy of it all.