They lived in northern Florida. Joanie was an actress. She said she did a lot of local television commercials. She had huge teeth and a big, wide smile. When we stood up, later, I realized she was about a foot taller than me. Rick sold powerboats; he had two dealerships and a third one on the way. He had broad shoulders and big hands, a thin nose and smooth skin, and a steel diving watch on his left wrist. I’m not that tall, or as good-looking as some guys, but I’m not an ugly fucking freak or anything. These two were perfect, though. They looked like models, big models who lifted weights. They had a boy, five, and a girl, two, and they showed us pictures of them, and Rick had a picture of himself on his Harley, giving the thumbs-up. I said they must still be exhausted from the flight, but Rick pulled his hair back in a rubber band and said he’d already reserved a court for paddle tennis later.

He asked me what I thought of the fish. I said it was good. Rick said they really knew how to cook it here; it tasted like butter.

THE NEXT MORNING I was walking down the beach and I saw Rick. He said, “Hey, neighbor, where you going?”

I said, “Nowhere,” and Rick said, “I’m going fishing. Come on.” I’d never been fishing. I ran back to our suite. Diane was taking a nap. I didn’t know what to bring. I grabbed my Swiss Army knife and left a note: “Didn’t want to wake you up, honey—Rick and I went fishing.”

The resort chartered a boat twice a week to take people out, and besides us there were seven or eight other guests on board. It headed toward the horizon, loud and stinking of diesel fuel. Then they shut the engine off and everybody dropped their lines. It was amazing out there. Rick fished. I didn’t fish. I watched the other people.