But when he knocks on my door half an hour later, we do little talking. I let him in, pull him toward me. I taste him deeply and don’t let go.

“Are you sure?” he whispers into the night, his lips at my neck just below my ear.

I am. I answer him by pressing my body into his, by pushing him into the thin mattress, by sucking the words from his lips. He doesn’t ask again.

He is gentle and he is slow, as if I am made of china. But I don’t break when he fills me. I grow stronger, my heart swells. My watercolor lines pulse with a new intensity of color. And when it’s over, I lie curled against him like two leaves fallen from the same tree. I feel his breath on my shoulder, the tick tick tick of his heart against my back like Moony’s watch under my pillow. There is no regret.

I fall asleep among a litter of limbs and tarot cards. I dream of a woman hog-tying a scarlet bull, and an owl wielding a sword with two blades—one dull, one sharp. I wake up just as I begin falling, wondering which end will catch me.

XXX.

THE NEXT DAY, DANIEL LEAVES EARLY FOR WORK, AND still Mary doesn’t come home. By the afternoon, I’m starting to worry. I call and text repeatedly, but she never responds. I check the bathroom—all her pill bottles are there. Unless she swung by a pharmacy, she doesn’t have her meds. Not that I know which ones she is taking or if she’s been taking them. Finally, much as I don’t want to, I decide to brave the Quarter, to go out looking for her. Maybe she’s in the square giving readings or in one of the dingy bars. Maybe I’ll see her car parked along a narrow street. It’s a long shot, but it’s all I’ve got.