Poppy watched Roxie as she ran, admiring her calf muscles shifting with each stride, that graceful frame, the silky braid, looking like it was straight off a Pantene commercial.

The run back to the house passed quickly, as Poppy was still filled with a bright and youthful energy, the distinct feeling of high hopes.

When she got to the house, she poured a glass of ice water and went out to the patio to watch the sun rise. She did some stretches and ran an ice cube over her forehead.

Then she tiptoed into her bedroom, where John appeared to be sleeping soundly on his side, holding Poppy’s pillow to his chest, just the way he held her when she was next to him. She had noticed that John often shifted to this position when she left the bed for a midnight snack or an early-morning run; he’d pull at a pillow or place the comforter so that it was bunched before him, to make a Poppy-like form to hold in sleep.

She peeled off her running clothes, which smelled of an unpleasant synthetic type of sweat. She took off her bra and underwear too, everything damp with sweat. Completely naked, she crawled into bed, pulling the pillow from John’s arms and nestling herself in its place, facing him. She threw an arm over his broad shoulder. She put her nose on his neck and felt him swallow. She kissed his Adam’s apple, and it vibrated as he made a gentle “Mmm,” sound, waking to her touch. Half asleep, he ran his hand clumsily down her side, then between her breasts. She shivered. She whispered, “It’s gonna be an hour before anyone else is up.”

He smiled, his eyes still closed. He said, “Mm?”

Poppy nuzzled her face into his neck, which was rough with two days’ worth of unshaven stubble. She exhaled through her nose right into his jaw, and he giggled, ticklish. He whispered, “Did you have a good run?” and turned to lie on his back.

Poppy moved up onto her knees, then up over his belly, straddling him. Since his surgery, sex was easiest with her on top. They had tried out other ways, but this worked best. Poppy liked being on top anyway. She liked to see his face and touch it and direct the pace of things, and she could fairly predictably climax at the same time he did, because she could tell when he was close: a sudden look in his eyes that was at once ferocious and completely defenseless.

She eased herself on top of him and leaned forward to kiss his hair. Many kisses, all over his forehead and into his hair and scalp. He put both hands on the back of Poppy’s head, in her hair, and whispered, “Love you, Pops,” and she said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” feigning impatience, and he laughed softly as she pressed herself hard against him.

All the good old moves, the tried-and-true, as steadfast and predictable as clockwork. Sex had changed once kids entered into the mix, of course; it had to be quick, had to be quiet. Then a bad mattress, then a bad knee, then the bad back; various circumstances necessitated a certain kind of sex, and over time, that kind of sex had become the only kind. Well, and anyhow, they’d been together twenty years, for crying out loud. Poppy didn’t have anything new to show John at this stage of the game anyway—no new dirty talk, no new tricks. Why bother? What did she have to prove? She melted onto him, astounded at how good it still felt, that same old, dear old dance. She wondered if they’d still be doing it twenty years from now, when the kids were long gone and she and John were old, wrinkled, and lazy. Then she wondered about twenty years after that. If they’d still be doing it when they could barely see, barely hear, barely move, when all that was really left of life was the feelings.