This kiss was deeper. Her hand gripped my shoulder. My hand went around her back. She scooted closer to me on the sofa, our legs and bodies touching. A muffled moan escaped her throat. A long-dormant heat began flowing through my body.

Part of me was immersed in the moment, in Mira; another part kept its distance. Against my closed eyelids wavered the face of my dead wife, Deborah, and mingled with the pleasure of the kiss was guilt. It was an illogical guilt, but palpable, born from a feeling that I was being unfaithful to Deborah. A voice inside my head warned me that should I take this moment further, I would be cutting ties to my past, to my lost love. I had no picture of Deborah. All that she'd worn or touched or owned was gone, taken by the Germans or the Hungarians. All I had were memories, and they brought with them such agony that I kept them locked away in a vault deep down in my subconscious.

Go! Get up! Leave! the voice implored.

But another voice whispered that Deborah would not have begrudged me this moment, nor any that might follow. She would not want me to wallow in misery for the rest of my life. She would want me to seek and find happiness. And where would I find another woman like Mira? A woman who could accept and appreciate the man I now was?

The voices were still skirmishing in my head when Mira ended the kiss. She rested her forehead against mine, inhaling deeply through her nose. Then she leaned back, took her hand off my shoulder, glanced at her watch, and let out a sigh of frustration.

"I hate to do this, Adam," she said, "more than you can imagine. But Sarah is expecting me at the hair salon. I'm already running late."

She looked apologetic, and I did my best to hide my conflicting emotions. There was relief, but it was overshadowed by impatient irritation and a desire to kiss her again.

Mira said, "Can you come over tonight after you see Willie's mother? I'll cook dinner for us."

"Yes," I said, my voice slightly hoarse. I swallowed to clear it.

Mira smiled. It was a happy smile, eager and lovely, utterly exorcised of ghosts and guilt. She put her hand on my thigh and we kissed again. My hand went through her soft hair to cup the back of her head. She kneaded my thigh. It lasted a long time, that kiss, and by the time it was done we were breathless.

"God," Mira exhaled. "I wish I didn't have to go."

At the door we kissed some more—a swift series of kisses, each like a promise of more to come.

"Finish what you have to do and then come over," Mira said. "Around six should be fine. We'll eat early."

What we would do after dinner remained unsaid.

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