Kissing me, a flurry of mothlike kisses. He was an eager lover, unexpectedly tender. Unexpectedly careful. Not to press too hard, not to weigh too heavily.

A perpetual quickened breath, heated skin. Astonished eyes. Hands framing my face as if he’d never seen anything like me before.

“First time I saw you, I knew. Crazy for you.”

True? Not true.

Mistaking my silence for evasiveness. Mistaking my insecurity for mystery.

“But then, you are so young. So much younger than I am . . .”

Wistful. Not (yet) resentful.

“YOU MUST CALL ME ‘ORLANDO.’ C’MON! IT ISN’T HARD.”

“‘Vio-let.’ Never known a ‘Violet’ before.”

Then, “That’s your actual name, is it? On your birth certificate?”

IF OTHER WOMEN CALLED WHILE I WAS IN HIS PRESENCE HE would not pick up the receiver. How gratified I felt, to be preferred by this man.

Orlando wasn’t available. No!

Cruel of him to listen to the woman’s faltering message played back and then in mid-sentence deleted.

Only one of these women was the ex-wife. The daughter never called.

The excitement over Violet seemed to have been the discovery of a beautiful sorrowing virgin/Madonna inside the cleaning-woman’s loose-fitting clothes. T-shirt, jeans. Gray woolen socks.

A quite attractive female-body, where no body at all was expected.

Kissing the star-shaped scar at the hairline. A man is attracted without his knowing. Kissing, sucking.

A shudder running through two bodies in an instant.

And now, searching through the apartment for a gift to give the shy-seeming/sullen-seeming girl to make her smile. A memento.

A necklace, turquoise beads, slipping it over my head, beads tangling in my hair—“Beautiful! Perfect.”

(Had the necklace belonged to the daughter, left carelessly behind? I would find several dark hairs tangled in the beads and tug them out, bemused.)

Maroon lipstick was his favorite—“Classy. Sexy.”

Ivory Translucent makeup, powder. Mascara to emphasize the deep-set mysterious eyes. Glossy jet-black hair parted so that the little star-shaped scar was exposed.

He’d always thought, since he’d been a kid, the natural look was overrated. Nobody’s turned on by some face not so different from a young guy’s.

“Here, buy some things for yourself. Not drugstore cosmetics. Take it all. Go on! I’d start a credit card account for you, but . . . .”

Voice trailing off as a rueful memory intruded.

THEN AGAIN, HE WAS SOBER. HADN’T HAD A DRINK ALL DAY.

Well, maybe at lunch. But only a glass, two glasses, red wine.

Brooding, vexed about something. The jubilance had faded from his voice. Calling me from his office at the research institute, voice lowered.

On the phone he’d purchased for me that he might call me at any time on it and I must answer immediately: “Hello? Violet? Where are you?”

A phone purchased for me with an (unlisted) number only he might know. No one else could call me on that phone.

“It’s a deal, Violet? Yes?”