“It’s actually kind of hot,” Jill continued, lowering her tone. “Like, he’s got a really sexy voice.”

“Oh please.”

“He does. Hey, you want to try something?”

“What is it?”

“Talk to me like that,” she went on. “Talk to me like Mr. Rogers.”

“No. I have to change his diaper tomorrow morning.”

“Do it. Say you want to enter the warm slickness of my cunt.”

“I want to enter the warm slickness of your cunt.”

“No, really get into it. Make your voice sound like his voice.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t do this. It’s too weird.”

“Here, I know what we’ll do.”

She got up, opened another beer, then went into our bedroom and closed the door. In a couple of minutes, my cell phone rang.

“Hey, big boy,” Jill said. “Is this better?”

“Not really.”

“I’m lying in bed with my legs spread open, thinking of you and touching myself.”

“Is that so? Maybe I’ll have to make it so you’re walking funny down those airplane aisles.”

“Give me what I want,” Jill replied. “Describe a scene like Mr. Rogers.”

“I guess we’re at the beach,” I began. “It’s summer and we’ve been taking turns cooling off in the water all day. I keep rubbing you down with sunblock and getting really horny.” That was terrible. I didn’t know why I wasn’t able to imagine an original scenario for her, why our phone sex fantasy had to be derived from his fantasy. “Wait. Let me try again. It’s summer, and we’re at the beach. We’ve been swimming all day, but around dusk, clouds tumble in. Families pack up coolers, couples leave holding hands, but we stay.” Almost unconsciously, I started to see us there, felt my skin raw from sunburn, even found my voice changing to mimic Mr. Rogers’s voice like she asked, adopting his deep drawl. “When the droplets hit after sunset, we run to the parking lot, but it’s too late. We’re caught in the downpour. I search my pockets, but I can’t find my keys. I drape you across the hood, and we make love as we’re drenched. The aluminum is hot from stored sunlight. The rain becomes warm as it slides down the car.” I could hear her breathing faster, insistently.

“Yes,” she said. “Now tell me how strange it feels to love someone.”

“It feels strange to love you,” I said.

She cried out in orgasm. Hanging up, I could hear her through the walls. I didn’t go in, though. I didn’t feel like I could.

When I braved the bedroom a couple hours later, I found her folded into a fetal ball, asleep. How I wished I could dissolve into a film that lacquered her skin, an invisible armor to safeguard against imminent pains and abrasions. So I crawled under the covers and spooned her. Why did it feel so impossible for me to lie down tenderly with her when she was awake? Growing up, Jill had been an Air Force brat. Her father was a pilot, so Jill, her baby brother, and her mother were alone. He went over to the Middle East; meanwhile, back home, Jill’s mom had a string of casual lovers. Apparently the father was willing to ignore the liaisons while he was gone, but even after he returned the mother couldn’t break her habit. Jill had hardly seen him: the occasional phone call, the occasional lunch. Her brother, too, enlisted in the Air Force and now flies drones in the skies above Afghanistan.