She was curious about his past and wondered how he’d learned his tricks, but whatever he was doing with his fingers made her stop thinking, stop wondering. She closed her eyes and gave in to this new form of communication. This was a language that existed only between them, a call and response. When at last they came together she reached for his hand and bit down gently on his finger. His back was slick with sweat. He moaned with pleasure and said her name in a way she’d never heard it. She allowed herself to make the smallest sound, a tiny gasp. Their lovemaking felt generous, like an exchange of thoughtful gifts. It was different and more meaningful than anything she’d read about in the magazine. After so many months of shielding herself from grief, their closeness led her to feel a dangerous pang of tenderness for him in the place where she protected her feelings—dangerous because she knew too well that love led to loss, and she’d already lost so much.

Arthur provided Sherri with a wonderful excuse to stay away from her empty apartment on the square. Whenever she talked about going home, he’d nuzzle her. “Don’t,” he’d say. “Stay.” And she did.

“Don’t you have to work?” she asked. His lifestyle confused her, and made him harder to put into any kind of social context. He was away from his family, away from any sort of office. That’s how he seemed to her, away.

“You’re my job this week,” he said. “Can’t beat the benefits.”