“That’s because he doesn’t live here,” said Miss Dee. “His friend Ronny does.”

Seeing her so bright, in the company of Clara, who took so much trouble to look colorful and put-together (in spite of the rather heavy coat)—and even Miss Dee wearing a crisp dress with silver buttons—he understood them, just for a moment, more exactly as they were: two flickering beings, alive as anything, moving at a distance of a different type. It was so easy to think of her, and maybe both of them, as faded and lonely. But as Miss Dee said to Clara, “Stop this flirting with the young men, Clara, it won’t get you anywhere,” he could see the whole woman in her expression, in her grin at her joke.

“I think it’s a shame to be so old,” said Clara, and laughed, and reached for the sherry bottle.

“You ladies aren’t old, you’re fully ripened,” Ronny said. They looked at him for a moment, and so did Ben, and they burst out laughing.

“Can’t get much riper,” said Miss Dee. “Right about to fall off the tree.”

“Well, me oh my, I am sure glad this bottle is not empty.”

“If you don’t take that coat off, you’re going to start sweating after all this sherry.”

“Oh, leave me alone, Alberta. You know I’m cold natured.”

“You look like you’re going on a trip,” said Miss Dee to Ronny; she was seeing his bag, of course, and he fidgeted and Ben said, “Yes, ma’am, he’s coming to my house for a visit. We’re old friends like that.”

“Did you lock your room?”

Ronny said, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, you boys have a good time.”

“And you ladies keep yourselves under control.” Ben patted Clara on the back and they tittered, and as the boys walked out of the house they could hear the talking resume, the clinking of glasses in the kitchen, a burst of laughter, and outside the spring day, the smell of the jessamine along the side fence, two birds darting back and forth, chasing each other in the air.

On the way to the car, Ben walked fast, looking brighter today, as if he had a slight glow. “Did you notice I got rid of the beer cans and made that filthy bed?”

“No, I didn’t even think about it. Man. You’re domestic. Thank you.”

Ben was grinning in that lopsided way. “Careful. You don’t want me to crack you on the head.”

“You might give me amnesia, you know, like on a soap opera. Then who would do your homework?”

“Fuck you.”

This time Ben had parked in the driveway, the car gleaming and clean. Seeing it in daylight, anybody could see the care Ben took to maintain it, the chrome polished, the body waxed, the vinyl roof gleaming. Bags carefully packed in the boot. “You name your car?”

Ben gave him a shove, an excuse to touch. “Don’t be stupid. Who names a car?”

“I would.”

“Well, you’re special.”