Claire, whom she’d summoned by phone as soon as she’d left Diego’s, had predicted this falling away. They’d spent the afternoon together on her sofa, most of the time in silence, a silence which became reflection, then later, after Claire had left, bacchanal—music, baking, dancing, and wanton masturbation, during which she stroked herself and pinched her nipples and buried into her mound of earth a plantain wet with olive oil.

She drained the glass, her fourth in the last hour, and began to feel a comfort with the music that she hadn’t felt at first. And as she stood there, caught in a tidal draft of bass, the snare smacking wet like a belly flop, the guitar slicing through like an oar stroke, the horns fine and light as sand in an undertow, she began to think of herself as a fish, and the people around her as blades of sea grass. With the onset of weightlessness she became more aware of her body, of how much of it she couldn’t feel, of how much of it she wanted to touch, to reexplore, to reassure herself that it was all there, all hers—all hers to give to whomever she pleased …

Gregory was drifting across the stage, in an orange three-piece suit, his skinny back swayed like a sea horse, his voice a rippling whinny. She closed her eyes, hugged herself, and listened through her pores.

They can’t get me with silver
They can’t get me with gold
They wonder why I love you so
Half the story has never been told
But they would never understand
What it means to need someone
All I need is you … only you will do

When she opened her eyes he was there, dressed in rumpled khakis and a blue T-shirt that smelled of laundry soap. For a second she wasn’t sure what to do. Her first thought was to smile. But his smile, the one that warmed her face now, was so bright that she feared that hers would not shine through—that it would be swallowed like a village on the edge of a town.

Standing beside each other, feeling the heat of each other’s body distinct from the heat around them, they did not speak, their silence an agreement that the music was too loud for them to hear themselves. With smiles and glances, furrowed brows and pouted lips they carried on a dialogue about the people around them, trying to deflect attention from the momentous opportunity that faced them—they were alone in a dark place without supervision. Frightened by this, Sylvia broke the silence, tugging at Fire’s shirt so she could lean his ear toward her, but she found herself unable to speak. Cautious as well, he spoke to her from a distance.

After the show, they decided as they covered the half block to Broadway that he would share a cab with her. Why not? they reasoned, as she linked her arm in his. They were both going to Brooklyn. And the cookie? Yes … the cookie that she’d promised him. She’d forgotten it at home. At home in Brooklyn where they were both going … together … in the same car. How convenient. So shouldn’t he just stop by and get it, then? Which was not a bad idea, considering that he’d brought her a gift of coffee. Blue Mountain.