Going to her room, standing by the door, he found her still sleeping, and realized, as he watched her mumbling groggily, that the rustling had been the friction of her clothes against her skin. For she was lying on her belly, naked, her white pajamas crumpled with the sea green sheets, one leg splayed, the other drawn up the way women do when they want to feel a deeper heat.

Moaning from the depths of her unconscious, she rolled onto her back in a settling of shimmering flesh, falling now beneath his shadow, which splashed over her breasts, draining away through her cleavage into her navel.

As he leaned against the doorway of this quiet room whose drawn shades granted privacy, he felt every hair on his blood-hot body filling each pore in hers.

He pulled away. This place was hers. And therefore privacy wasn’t theirs until she’d given him permission.

He returned to the couch. There he pondered the possibilities of her body: the lean torso, the full calves, the firm thighs that melted like pitch into soft hips. And her bottom, which he knew now had not been overdramatized by a wide-angle lens. It was tight at the sides without dimples or blemishes, but filigreed, as women’s bottoms should always be, with stretch lines.

He channel-surfed, trying to get away from it, but it followed him to talk shows and sports roundups and cartoons and sitcoms and rescue reenactments … this big, brown batty on a string.

He heard her stirring again, and her voice calling his name, then a pause, during which, he could tell, she was dressing.

“Oh, it’s so late,” she said from the bathroom door, a little bit shy before brushing her teeth. “I’m sorry … I really didn’t mean to oversleep like this and pay you no mind. I’m being such a bad hostess. I hope you found ways to entertain yourself?”

“That you don’t have to worry about.”

“Good. I’ll be with you in a minute. And did I tell you good morning? Good morning.”

“Good morning to you too.”

“Are you hungry or anything?”

“Yes, but I’ve started breakfast. I’ll finish now that you’re up. Go ahead, shower and all that, then we can eat.”

“You’re making us breakfast. I was wondering what that smell was. Okay, two more points for you. I’ll be really quick then.”

In the shade of the cherry tree in the small backyard, in a corner by the fence, they spread a blanket and had a simple meal: buljol, chips of salt cod tossed in thyme and olive oil with garlic, diced tomatoes, chopped onions, and minced bell peppers; and bake, an unleavened bread made from flour and salt with a pinch of baking powder and butter. On the side they had avocado slices, cubes of feta cheese, and, to cool their lips, sugar and water with crushed ice.

“This is really good,” she said, with the first bite. “I never thought of feta cheese with codfish before. But it works. Who taught you to cook?”