“You don’t need one. You’re perfect just the way you are.”

That really sends them howling.

“Well, thank you. That—that means a lot to me.”

We both fall silent for a few seconds.

“Was there anything else?” he asks.

“No, I don’t think so. That covers it. But … is this really Joe?”

“Honest to god,” he says, “it’s Joe. And you are …?”

I think about how I might answer that. Then I fold up the phone, put it in my pocket, and reach for my glass.

Love at the Dog Fight

1969

They wrestled in their sleep. According to the game, whoever was pinned when they woke up had to submit. That morning it was Roy.

Teresa was behind him, one arm curled around his middle, the other draped over his pillow and across the top of his head. Her right leg was folded over his, the heel of her foot locked against his shin. He felt her breath on his neck: an even tide that told him she might still be asleep. Slowly, he stretched out his body within her hold. He turned himself like a dowel, and was in the process of lifting her arm from around him when he heard her mumble, “Cheater.”

He faked a yawn. “Hmmm?”

She bit down gently on his shoulder.

“I’m just stretching,” he lied.

“Go ahead and stretch, but I’m the boss.”

He wriggled around to face her. “Can I be the boss this time? Please?”

She tightened her grip. “Shush, young man.”

He was completely aroused. He tried to make this apparent, but her hold on his legs prevented him from moving his hips forward. “I could owe you one.”

She kissed his forehead. “You’re cute when you don’t get your way.” She kissed the spot between his eyes, the end of his nose, his mouth. “Lie flat on your back.”

There was a knock on the door.

“What?” they called out in unison.

Katherine’s voice penetrated the thin, hollow wood. “Frankie wants out of his crib.”

“Tell Matt to get him,” Roy said, and then, whispering to Teresa, “I’ll owe you two times as boss. Just let me have this one. I’m in that kind of mood.” He tried once more to press against her.

“Wait.” A yawn stretched Teresa’s face, inches from his. When it subsided, she said, “Matt won’t do it.”

“He can’t get Frankie?”

“He won’t.”

There was another knock on the door. “Matt says he doesn’t have to do anything on his birthday.”

Teresa smiled thinly for Roy. Letting go of him, sitting up, she said, “Can you just give Frankie his cup, then, honey? Make sure the lid is all the way on. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“So you’re forfeiting?” Roy asked her.