“Your tongue between my toes,” she says; her voice cracks timidly, issuing the command. When again he complies, she edges forward on the bed and spreads her legs. “Now here.” She knows he enjoys this, but asks it anyway, to see what she can make of him, this alien man. His head, with its stubborn old-fashioned short haircut—the enemy’s uniform, athlete and soldier; bone above the ears, dingy blond silk thinning on top—feels large as a boulder between her thighs. The excitement of singing her song, ebbing, unites with the insistent warmth of his tongue lapping. A spark kindles, a green sprig lengthens in the barren space between her legs. “A little higher,” Jill says, then, her voice quite softened and crumbling, “Faster. Lovely. Lovely.”

One day after work as he and his father are walking down Pine Street toward their before-bus drink at the Phoenix Bar, a dapper thickset man with sideburns and hornrims intercepts them. “Hey, Angstrom.” Both father and son halt, blink. In the tunnel of sunshine, after their day of work, they generally feel hidden.

Harry recognizes Stavros. He is wearing a suit of little beige checks on a ground of greenish threads. He looks a touch thinner, more brittle, his composure more of an effort. Maybe he is just tense for this encounter. Harry says, “Dad, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. Charlie Stavros, Earl Angstrom.”

“Pleased to meet you, Earl.”

The old man ignores the extended square hand and speaks to Harry. “Not the same that’s ruined my daughter-in-law?”

Stavros tries for a quick sale. “Ruined. That’s pretty strong. Humored is more how I’d put it.” His try for a smile ignored, Stavros turns to Harry. “Can we talk a minute? Maybe have a drink down at the corner. Sorry to butt in like this, Mr. Angstrom.”

“Harry, what is your preference? You want to be left alone with this scum or shall we brush him off?”

“Come on, Dad, what’s the point?”

“You young people may have your own ways of working things out, but I’m too old to change. I’ll get on the next bus. Don’t let yourself be talked into anything. This son of a bitch looks slick.”

“Give my love to Mom. I’ll try to get over this weekend.”

“If you can, you can. She keeps dreaming about you and Mim.”

“Yeah, some time could you give me Mim’s address?”

“She doesn’t have an address, just care of some agent in Los Angeles, that’s the way they do it now. You were thinking of writing her?”

“Maybe send her a postcard. See you tomorrow.”

“Terrible dreams,” the old man says, and slopes to the curb to wait for the 16A bus, cheated of his beer, the thin disappointed back of his neck reminding Harry of Nelson.

Inside the Phoenix it is dark and cold; Rabbit feels a sneeze gathering between his eyes. Stavros leads the way to a booth and folds his hands on the Formica tabletop. Hairy hands that have held her breasts. Harry asks, “How is she?”