As she thought about this it occurred to her that she was feeling something for him that she’d never felt for any other man in her life. Respect. What she’d thought was respect in the past, she was realizing now, had simply been consideration and courtesy. She’d never been enthralled by their beliefs or opinions, largely because none of those men had equaled or surpassed her in intellect or experience. She had never wanted to be with a man simply for how he made her feel, she admitted to herself now. It had always been for other reasons, none of which, she thought as she looked back now, had been valid.

She looked at him, he was looking back at her … and as the air around them was empurpled by the twilight, she sensed the gap between their faces dissolving … and his breath searing her nose … and his lips steaming the wrinkles out of hers.

“Weren’t you scared all those years when you were living hand to mouth?” she asked as they walked along a path to Montague Street, where activity had begun to stir beneath the awnings that shaded the windows of the shops and cafés.

He palmed the back of her head and massaged her scalp, then slid his hand across her shoulder, allowing it to freefall down her back, where it seized the stem of her waist. “No,” he said. “I was able to buy all the things I needed. I really don’t need many material things to be happy y’know, Sylvia. Not a lot.”

“What are some of them?”

The taste of her lips still fresh on his, he steered her down a side street overhung with trees that seemed to drink from the pools of darkness.

“Cut flowers … not necessarily fancy ones either,” he told her, as his eyes scanned ahead for a recessed entrance where he could lean against her and squeeze the flesh on her hips as he kissed her wetly. “Freshly brewed coffee, two good speakers, enough money to buy a book and a couple of CDs a week. Throw in a nice white shirt and a pair of dress shoes. After that everything is gravy.”

“You believe that?” she asked, wondering if that ridge that she’d noticed on his trouser leg as he sat on the bench had all belonged to him, or whether he’d been assisted by a flattering accident of pleating.

“I’m not saying everybody should do this,” he replied. “But that is how I feel.”

“And you’ve always felt this way?”

“I’ve never had any evidence to the contrary. Americans are the richest people in the world—but are they happier than anybody else? Watch the talk shows or the evening news. Look at people’s faces on the subway.”

She began to think of herself now. A near six-figure salary, an Ivy League diploma, and no dependents. She should feel an incredible sense of possibility, shouldn’t she?

A young man on Rollerblades slowed down and gave them a flyer, then sped away into the night.