Once that was done, it was easier. All the kissing and licking and stroking, it’s the same, the feel of another’s flesh after a long time away. I was entranced by the contrast of our skins, both a little weather-beaten, the worse for time. But him so dark and me so light, it was lovely. And when he slid inside me, his face buried in my neck, murmuring some words I couldn’t hear, I felt such joy. Just like on the dance floor. I was free again, at last.

Afterward, I was oddly calm. It was Saturday night, which meant there was Sunday to deal with, and he couldn’t seem to keep his hands off me. One hand made its way sleepily down my back as we regarded each other. He looked like a man who couldn’t believe his luck. I couldn’t believe mine, either. “So,” I said.

“So.”

“So thanks. I … thanks.”

“It was my pleasure.” He grinned, suddenly boyish. Sex seemed to have really loosened him up. “And yours, I hope.”

“Oh, yes. I mean, of course.” I fell silent again. “My ex-husband is getting remarried. He called and told me before the dance.” Jerome’s hand stopped moving. “I don’t know why I told you that. I just thought of it. I don’t know. Do you care? It’s not why I wanted to be with you. I just thought of it somehow.”

I was babbling. He propped himself up on one elbow, brought a finger to my lips. “I don’t care.”

“What?”

“I feel so privileged to have had this night. This night where I have behaved utterly out of character. Where I … I didn’t worry about what was appropriate for once. Where I got something I wanted so badly—” His voice broke, softened. He lay back on the pillow; closed his eyes; spoke. “I don’t care why it happened. If you don’t love me. But I don’t want to stop just yet. Don’t ask me to. Please.”

What could I say? I rested my head on his chest and let him stroke my hair. It was a little difficult to breathe. The room was very quiet. It wasn’t long before we fell asleep, each to our own uneasy dreams.

I wish this whole thing didn’t sound quite so adolescent, but there you are. It started at a high school dance, after all. Sunday morning, I made coffee and English muffins, which he praised lavishly and he admired my apartment and my taste in books and my pictures of Sarah. I asked him if he ever wished he’d had children, and he said that he had them in a way. The boys were enough for him. I smiled and gave him some more coffee. “Did you ever teach anywhere else?” I asked.