Order. Practicality. Efficiency. He’d always thought of these as gates, not goals—filters through which one had to pass to reach the state of nonchalance. But last night’s confrontation had made him think again, and this was one of the things he was writing about. The other was the bouquet, oriental lilies pink and aromatic.

Of course he could have called. But the ritual of writing—the choosing of the paper, the finding of the pen, the convening of the thoughts, the drawing of the letters—was an intimate act that sometimes gave him the pleasure of kissing, for a pen could be many things: a finger … a tongue … a nose … a cock. And paper, with its possibilities of color and finish, could easily be a forehead … a back … a cheek … a belly … the pumiced sole of a delicate foot.

June—, 19—

Dear B,

Thanks very much for the flowers. That was very generous of you. You really didn’t have to—well, of course you know that. I guess this is a part of what makes them special—the indulgence. You have always indulged me, haven’t you?

Something happened last night to remind me of how special you are. I went to Ian’s opening and there was this couple there that Ian got into a fight with. The argument started because the guy said that this friend of his, some kind of corporate type, had ruined his life because he married a word processor. Ian asked him if he would be with his girlfriend if she were an editorial assistant and he said he wouldn’t. He said that he wouldn’t be with someone who was a liability.

After putting Ian to bed I went jogging in the park to clear my mind. And out there in the dark alone I began to realize how lucky I am. I had nothing to offer you when we met. I had no money, and I could barely take care of myself.

I love you for that, Blanche. No matter how things turned out or how they are. I will always love you for loving me before you knew I would be me.

—Fire

As he folded the page and licked the stamp he remembered a letter she’d written to him. About three months after he had gone to New York and found out she was married, she’d sent him a pleading missive in which she begged him to meet her in London, where she’d be lecturing at SOAS. She’d thought about things a lot, she said, and was sure he was her man. You must come, she wrote. You’re the most important thing in my life. Let’s work things out. I’ll buy the ticket. You can pick it up in Kingston. Your sperm still clings to my womb.