I stepped out of my slacks and unbuttoned my shirt quickly. I pulled my undershirt off over the bristle of my hair and felt a sudden blush of weakness for my wife who had ironed my uniform the night before. I stood naked before Louise. Desire lit my belly, so strong in that moment, I could forgive myself for what I was about to do. I was surprised when she stepped toward me. I hoped she would not notice my jaw was trembling in my effort to keep my teeth from chattering. I was so close to her I pulled her to me. Her cast was cold, rough, and heavy, as it brushed my leg. I helped her lift it onto the bed, thinking of her thin leg in plaster, the bone-break ragged beneath yellow bruises. She crossed her arms over her breasts, her head heavy on the pillow. The hair close to her neck was wet and curled tight to her throat. I tried to pull it back. My fingers were swollen fat in the heat. I poked her accidentally in the throat. She coughed, and I sat up laughing at my damn clumsy hands. Unsmiling, she turned her face from me toward the brownish skulllike water stain that bloomed above the bed stand. I lay down beside her.

I saw the high ceiling, watched long threads of dust chase our breath. Sunlight haloed the edge of the shade, illuminated the dress she had left on the chair. The thin fabric fluttered slightly from a breeze beneath the door crack or through the mercury sliding window. And for some reason I thought of my grandmother, the day she died. She had worn her hair in tight braids all her life. But my grandfather loosened her long hair after she had stopped breathing and opened up all the doors and windows in the house. It was April. And the wind was cool and smelled of lilacs and water. All night the wind blew through her hair, lifting it up to the bedposts like the pale, gray ghost of her. My grandfather sat with her body for two long days, not leaving her side, not eating, watching her still chest just to make sure she had stopped breathing.