Thomas cupped her breasts in his big hands and delicately lifted them, as if he were admiring something she’d just brought out of the oven. He wasn’t the type to talk about his desires directly, but she knew that the vast majority of his sexual interest in her was centered in her breasts. They were her best feature and she’d always been proud of them—once she got over her teenage embarrassment that they were too large and gave up researching plastic surgeons who specialized in breast reduction—but something in his sly enjoyment of them brought to mind images of a hefty teenage boy masturbating over Penthouse magazine or, worse still, some shadow of his attachment to his overbearing mother. “Jody’s beautiful babies,” he murmured, more to himself than to her, and then bent down to kiss each nipple, leaving behind wet rings on her jersey.

But what if waiting for this particular weather system to change was like waiting for snow or a sudden frost in Miami: not impossible, but not very likely, either.

“You go upstairs,” she said hoarsely. “I’ll just tidy up a couple of things here and be right up.”

If that cleaning person hadn’t come today, she could wash the kitchen floor or scrub the bathtub, any time-consuming chore that opened up the possibility that Thomas would be asleep when she went to bed. She had only herself to blame for being so insistent about hiring a cleaning service.

Once Thomas had left—he was so agreeable; maybe it would have been better if they’d gotten it over with down here, on the living room sofa, even if there was no air-conditioning—she went to the kitchen sink and sprayed her face and the back of her neck with cold, chlorinated water. But as she was drying herself with a hand towel, she realized her intent had been to wash off her loving husband’s saliva. She tossed the towel into the sink and, resigned, went up the grand curved staircase that had impressed her so much when the Realtor showed them the house for the first time, all those years ago.

2.

The bedroom was freezing, and when she slid into the bed, the cool of the soft yellow sheets brought up goose pimples.

He was shy, that’s what made it all so touching. He liked to leave the lights off and reach for her under the covers, as if they were doing something that had to be kept secret. He buried his face in her chest, mumbling that awful name he had for her, “Jody, Jody,” and rubbed against her leg. She could feel his fat, bloated penis bumping her, clumsily. It made her think of a Newfoundland puppy, a creature whose gawky, immature, undisciplined behavior was completely inappropriate to its size.