Fragile

7

Rinsing the dishes, Maggie cut her finger on a chip in one of the dinner plates, and she bled into the soapy water. It looked like nothing, little more than a paper cut, but she couldn’t stop the bleeding. She put her finger in her mouth, tasting the salty sweetness of her blood, a little soap. The offending dish was a piece from the casual dining set they’d received at their wedding, a discontinued line of Royal Doulton stoneware. She wondered how it had chipped.

“You okay?” asked Jones, coming up behind her.

“Yeah,” she said, showing him her finger. He lifted it to his mouth and gave it a little kiss. Then he finished loading the dishes in the dishwasher as she pressed a dry napkin against the cut until the bleeding stopped. She wiped the countertop with a tattered old dishrag that needed replacing, passing it quickly over the appliances, too, just like she would have had to do in her mother’s home. Keep on top of the surfaces and your house will always look clean, her mother would say. Upstairs, Ricky’s music had stopped. He’d never come down for dinner, and Jones had told her to leave him alone, let him sulk it out-whatever it was.

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and Charlene dumped him,” Jones said, starting the dishwasher.

“Jones.”

“Well?”

He poured them each a glass of red wine, the merlot they’d opened last night, and she followed him out to the deck, even though she thought it was too cold to sit outside. She didn’t like to miss their ritual if she could help it. Maybe it was the wine, or the semidark in which they sat, but in recent years, this place after dinner was where he was most open, most relaxed. Later, the television would go on and he’d blank out. Maybe she’d sit beside him and watch whatever he had on-usually something on the Discovery or History Channel; he wasn’t into sports, didn’t like other television shows, or even movies for that matter. Or maybe she’d go to bed and read or maybe, if she had a lot of paperwork, back to her office.

She’d told him about Marshall over dinner, the scene in her office, how he’d appeared across the street. She’d mentioned Travis as well, his new business endeavor.

“As if anyone in this town would hire Travis Crosby,” said Jones. “You’d have to be the biggest moron alive to bring that guy into your business.”

Her husband had always disliked Travis, though she remembered that in high school they’d played on the lacrosse team together, been occasional friends. They’d both joined the police department in the same year, Travis staying on the street, Jones moving over to the small detective division and eventually rising to head detective, a post he’d held for ten years.

Travis had been pulled over on the interstate, driving the wrong way at more than eighty miles an hour, blood alcohol over 0.2, his service revolver exposed on the seat beside him. Had he been in The Hollows, the incident would have been swept aside. But he was unlucky enough to run into a state trooper. It was his third offense in a decade, and this meant mandatory jail time, as well as the loss of his job.

“I don’t know if that guy is more dangerous on or off the job. But I guess we’ll see soon enough,” said Jones.

“I’m worried about Marshall.”

“You do what you can for him, Mags. But keep your distance. You’re his doctor, not his friend. It’s a professional relationship.”

He was right, but she still bristled at the comment. She quashed the urge to snap at him. You think I don’t know how to keep a professional distance? But after the fight last night, she was weary of angry words. It had started with Ricky about the tattoo, then morphed into something larger between the two of them. It was the old argument about how he was too hard and she was too easy, how she always took Ricky’s side and he was always the bad guy. Thinking about it, she couldn’t even remember who said what, the memory was just an angry blur, like a landscape seen through the window of a car driving too fast. They’d been up late arguing and finally come to grudging peace before bed. She didn’t want another night like that.

He put a hand on her arm. “Don’t be mad,” he said. “I know you care about your patients. I just need you to protect yourself, too.”

Her annoyance dissolved instantly. “I know,” she said. “You’re right.”

She knew where the professional line was in terms of behavior, of course. But she didn’t seem to have a stopgap internally, didn’t always know when or how to stop caring on a personal level. It left her feeling drained sometimes, though she was better at protecting herself than she had been when she was younger.

“What about you?” she asked. She shifted in her seat, thinking the cushions were getting stiff and needed replacing. “Are you doing okay?”

There were leaves floating in the pool. They’d need to have someone out to clean and winterize, cover it for the season. Every autumn, she thought about her private promise to swim laps every day in the summer, enjoy the pool more on the weekends. And at the end of every season, she looked back with regret, thinking she could count on the fingers of one hand the times she’d done either.

“I’m just tired,” he said. “Just really tired.”

In the dim light, she watched him. He had his head back on the chair, looking up at the stars. She could already tell by the set of his jaw, the way his arms were folded across his body, that he wouldn’t say more. She drained her glass and thought about another, then noticed that the cut on her finger had started to bleed again.

She got up to bandage it, and when she returned, Jones had already gone inside. She found him lying on the couch, the remote in his hand.

“Want to watch anything?” he asked. But she knew he’d just flip through the channels until he found something that interested him.

“No,” she said. “Maybe I’ll just catch up on some paperwork.”

But he was already tuned out, just gave her a little nod. She stood in the doorway a minute, watched him settle in. She went upstairs and listened at Ricky’s door, heard him singing along to something on his headphones. She worried that he hadn’t eaten but figured he’d know there was pizza downstairs when he got hungry. Then she drifted back to her office, unlocking that door, moving through quietly, and closing it behind her.

Their house was always dark, not like at Leila and Mark’s, where every light was always shining and there was a television going in one room, a radio playing in another. Everyone was always talking, yelling from room to room, his cousins were in and out, chatting on the phone, speaking in loud voices, laughing, arguing, goofing around.

Boys, please, Leila’s eternal plea. The noise. But she never really sounded angry, not in the way he was used to. Even when she was scolding, she always seemed on the verge of laughing.

The refrigerator was always full to bursting; there was always something simmering on the stove. There was no room for dark or quiet or cold in that house.

“It’s a three-ring circus over there,” his father complained. “How did you stand it?”

“The circus is fun, Dad. People laugh and have a good time.” He’d tried that good-natured joking around that was acceptable at his aunt’s house. But it didn’t work with his dad.

“The circus is for idiots.” His father’s words had the sting of a hard slap. Then, as if the slag weren’t already implied, “You must have felt right at home.”

Marshall had felt right at home. He really had. But when the judge had asked him where he wanted to live, he’d said, “I want to be with my dad.” And he had wanted that.

“Why, Son?” the judge had asked with something like disbelief. He remembered that office, overwarm and dusty. The judge sat behind a giant wood desk that Marshall would swear was designed to make people on the other side feel small. The shelves were lined with books, matching leather-bound volumes. He remembered that a few years ago, this judge who looked so imposing now in his big black robe had slept on their couch, too drunk to drive home after a poker game. “Why would you want that?”

“Because he’s my dad.”

It was all Marshall could think to say. There was something deep within him that clung, held on tight. Even when he hated his father-and sometimes he really, really did-there was still a part of him that waited like a puppy for a bone. Anything-a smile, a pat on the shoulder. Anything.

Now he heard his father hammering in the basement. He flipped on the fluorescent light in the kitchen and walked over to the refrigerator. There were some dishes in the sink; the garbage was starting to smell. In the fridge, a six-pack of Miller Lite and the leftover Chinese takeout from last night sat lonely and uninviting. He let the door swing closed, then reluctantly walked down the hall and descended the stairs to the basement.

“You’re late,” his father said. Marshall sank onto the bottom step, wrapped his arms around his shins.

“Sorry.”

His father didn’t look up from what he was doing. “Where were you?”

Marshall didn’t answer. Travis let the hammer drop and turned his gaze on his son. Something about the look on his father’s face, and the hammer in his hand, made Marshall’s heart beat fast, his throat go dry.

“I told you to stop going there,” Travis said.

“I told her,” said Marshall quickly. “I told her I didn’t want her in my head anymore.”

Even saying it now, remembering how she’d looked at him, he felt sick. He didn’t tell his father how he’d hung around her house for hours, almost went to see her to apologize, then ran off when she came out and spotted him, too afraid, ashamed, confused to say what he wanted to say. All the words and emotions jammed up in his throat and his chest. All he could think to do was run.

Travis gave his son a nasty smile. “And what did she say to that?”

“She said it was my choice to come or not.”

“Damn right it is,” said Travis. He went back to his hammering, a slow lift and a heavy drop.

He was building shelves for his office. His father had a talent for things like that. The walls were painted, the new carpet laid. The office was starting to look good. They’d put together his desk, bought a computer on credit. They’d had a phone line installed and ordered a plaque: TRAVIS CROSBY INVESTIGATIONS. He was proud that he’d helped his father, even if Dr. Cooper didn’t seem overly impressed. What did she know?

“So where were you all this time?”

“I went to see this girl I know.”

“Oh, yeah?” Travis looked up at him, a crooked smile on his face. There was a shade of shared mischief there, the slightest hint of approval.

“And?”

“And we hung out. I took her for a ride in the car. She had to go home; she’s got a strict mother.”

“Is she a slut or a good girl?”

Marshall let out a little laugh at that. “I don’t know,” he said. He felt the heat rise to his face.

Travis gave him a look. “That was a trick question, Son. They’re all sluts.”

Now it was Travis’s turn to laugh; it sounded more like a cough. Marshall looked down at the toes of his combat boots, which he’d bought from the army-navy shop in town. He had that feeling he always had with his father, like he’d failed a test he didn’t know he was taking. No matter what answer he gave, it always seemed to be the wrong one.

“At least you’re seeing a girl in the flesh instead of living your life on that box upstairs.” His father meant the computer. Why he insisted on calling it a box, as if he didn’t know what it was or what it did, was beyond Marshall. His dad wasn’t that old.

“I didn’t hear you complaining when we hacked into Mom’s Facebook account,” said Marshall. He brought this up as often as possible because it always made his father smile.

Predictably, Travis let out a laugh at the memory. “That was pretty cool. Did she ever figure it out?”

“Nah. But she’s not seeing that guy anymore.”

Marshall had a gift for figuring out passwords. It really wasn’t that hard; most people were pretty lazy, wanted something easy to remember and then used that same password for everything. He knew his mother’s password for the wireless router at her place was his name and the year of his birth. Marshall figured it was probably the same for Facebook, and he was right. Last week, he and his dad had logged in to her account and left a wall message on her boyfriend’s page: I don’t want to see you anymore. Your dick is too small. You’ve never satisfied me.

Marshall hadn’t seen or called his mother since then. If his mother suspected him of hacking into her account, she didn’t get in touch to say so. Marshall noticed that she’d “unfriended” the loser she’d been dating, and that her boyfriend (now ex-boyfriend) had done the same to her. Mission accomplished.

Josh, Amber’s boyfriend, had been equally easy. His nickname on the football team was All-Star. Marshall guessed that was his password, and, again, he was right. Now the school was buzzing with Josh and Amber’s breakup. But, of course, she still didn’t seem that interested in Marshall, not even with the cool car and smokes. In fact, she’d practically run away from him.

His father went back to his hammering. It took Marshall a minute to realize that whatever nail Travis had been hammering was already sunk deep into the wood. Why was he still hitting it like that? Marshall stood and started to move back up the stairs.

Marshall didn’t have a lot of good memories of his father. Dr. Cooper had asked him to think of some moments when he’d felt happy and safe with his dad. He wasn’t sure what the point of that exercise had been, unless it was to make him feel more like shit than he already did. But he did come up with two occasions.

There was the time they went to the zoo together and his father had bought him an ice cream. He remembered that because it was his own cone; he didn’t have to share it. They’d seen some tigers. His father had said, “Man, they’re beautiful, aren’t they?” Marshall remembered looking at his father’s face and seeing something strange there-maybe it was awe. Travis had dropped an arm around Marshall’s shoulder and squeezed him tight. Marshall remembered that his happiness had felt like a swelling in his chest.

Once, Travis took him to the beach. Neither of them had been wearing bathing suits, so they swam with their pants on. They’d jumped huge waves and laughed when they wiped out. They’d driven home wet and shivering, ordered a pizza, and watched a game afterward.

Also, it was always safe to be around Travis when he was busy building something. His temper didn’t flare when he had his mind on a project, or when he was having a good time doing something. It was places like the dinner table or the couch that should be avoided, anytime Travis was idle and looking for someplace to direct his attention.

“Need some help?” Marshall asked.

His father shot him a look, a kind of up-and-down appraisal, ending in a sneer of disapproval. “An hour ago maybe. But not now.”

Marshall stood for a moment, watching his father’s thick arm lift and drop with the hammer. He wanted to say, Dad. You got it. You can stop hammering. But he didn’t. Then, when it was clear his father didn’t intend to look up again, Marshall turned and shuffled back up the stairs. He took the sack of egg rolls from the fridge, threw it in the microwave for a few seconds, and carried it upstairs.

Marshall closed the door to his room and waded through the junk on the floor-gaming magazines, clothes that needed washing. He accidentally kicked an empty Coke can, and it rattled under the bed. He sank into the tattered gray computer chair in front of his homemade desk-two planks of wood balanced between stacked red milk crates. The familiar sense of relief washed over him as the screen came to life and he entered his password.

Online it was all different. He was different. He could visit with people who wouldn’t give him a second glance in real life. Like Charlene Murray. He logged in to Facebook and checked his in-box. It was predictably empty, though sometimes he heard from a girl named Maya, whom he’d met in a science fiction chat group on AOL last year. She had an impressive knowledge of the genre, but she used a picture of Hello Kitty as her image on all the social networks, which meant she was probably ugly or fat. Still, he enjoyed talking to her and was disappointed that she hadn’t answered his last message.

He went straight to Charlene’s page, as he always did, checking first for any new photos of her. Then he checked his status updates; there was nothing new. He reread the only message she’d ever sent him personally, after he’d added her as a friend and she’d accepted. Hey, Marshall! Thanks for the friendship. See you at the Nook on Friday?

He’d thought it was a personal invitation until he realized that her band was playing at the club that catered to the underage set, serving sodas and junk food rather than booze. She’d sent that message to everyone. Still, wasn’t there something about the message she sent to him that was different? He thought so, though he couldn’t say what.

You just have to talk to her, man. Get to know her, let her get to know you. That’s all it is. Girls just want to talk. Sage advice from his cousin Tim. And it was good advice-if you were six feet tall, as blond and buff as a surfer, and every girl who met you fell instantly in love, if all you had to do was choose. But that was definitely not the case for Marshall. He was the kind of guy who disappeared in a crowd, the one you never thought about, who never said a word. Sometimes when he looked in the mirror, he almost felt like he couldn’t even see himself. He could focus on certain things-his mousy hair, the acne on his skin, his thin arms and undeveloped pecs. But he couldn’t get a sense of how all the separate parts of himself fit together.

When you work out, Ryan told him, you get a better sense of your body. You’ll get to know yourself better. And when he’d been at Leila’s, Marshall used to work out with them in the makeshift gym in the basement-they had free weights and an exercise bike, a weight bench and a sit-up plank. They told him what to do and he did it, though he had to admit he did not get off on the physical effort the way they seemed to. After working out, Ryan and Tim were pumped with adrenaline, ready and raring to go. Marshall just felt like lying down. Since he’d been back with his father, he hadn’t even gone for a run. Any gains he’d made during his time with his cousins had quickly faded.

He looked in Charlene’s notes for some new lyrics or poetry.

There’s a secret place where we can be free

Where the world will close its eyes to us

And we can be

Like the womb or the tomb

We are alone… together

It is a beginning and an end.

He quickly went to her wall and left a note: Love the new lyrics, Char. You’re so talented.

If he tried to say anything like that to her in person, he’d go red in the face, maybe even start to cough, make a total dork out of himself. But here he could comment on her updates, tell her what he thought about music and movies he knew she liked. She never answered him, but it was enough to know she was reading the things he wrote on her wall.

Last week he wrote to tell her about the car his dad had given him. “Lemme know if u ever need a lift!” He didn’t tell her that it was his father’s car and the only reason he’d given it to Marshall was that he wasn’t allowed to drive for six more months as part of his parole. So Marshall had basically become his chauffeur, driving him everywhere even when he should have been in school.

But when he’d seen Charlene in the parking lot the last time he’d been to school, she’d called out to him, Hey, Marshall, nice ride!

He’d given her a wave, and she’d waved back. He understood that communication to mean that even if she wasn’t writing back, she cared about the things he wrote. So he rushed to respond to every update, new photo, or note. Even though they barely exchanged a word-she’d wave as they passed in the hallway or smile when she saw him in the cafeteria-he knew her. He knew what she was thinking (Charlene is so sad today… for no good reason), reading (Charlene is loving the Twilight series!), when she was going to the mall (Charlene is meeting Brit @ the mall @ 2!!). He knew when the band was playing at a party, or when she was fighting with her mother. She posted all her new lyrics and poetry, and Marshall felt that this gave him a direct window into her soul. He knew Charlene Murray, maybe better than most because he could read between the lines. He thought maybe he knew her better than she knew herself.

“I went to high school with her mother.”

Marshall swiveled around in his chair to see his father filling the doorway. He felt the skin on his face go hot, his stomach bottom out. He hated it when his father came into his room. It was a colliding of selves. He was a different person with his father than he was in here; these two parts of himself did not mingle.

“She was a whore,” Travis said.

“Charlene’s not,” Marshall said quickly.

“No?” Travis walked over to stand beside Marshall, stared down at the screen. “I got news for you, Son. They’re all whores.”

Did he ever have anything new to say about women? It was pathetic. Travis had basically delivered the same wisdom downstairs. Still, Marshall felt the familiar internal storm-a sickening combination of anger and fear, a desire to connect, to agree and see his father smile in approval, and an equally strong desire to get away.

Now that Marshall was nearly the same height and almost as strong as his father, Travis didn’t hit him often; Marshall wasn’t physically afraid of his father. It was the things he said that lay like bruises on Marshall’s skin, damaged his organs, poisoned his blood. That voice was in his head all the time. He just couldn’t get it out. Even the competing voices-Aunt Leila, Mr. Ivy, Dr. Cooper-weren’t loud enough to drown him out lately.

“She’s a good person,” he said quietly, turning away to look at her picture. She looked nice, not so much black makeup, smiling brightly.

“That’s what I used to think about your mother. Of course, that was before I understood women. You’ll learn the hard way. Like we all do.”

Travis, chuckling now, started moving toward the door. Marshall knew he should just let him go. Travis already had a beer in his hand. If he sat down in front of the television, he’d drink until he fell asleep. And if his father slept in tomorrow, maybe Marshall could make it to school before his dad decided he needed a ride somewhere. But something dark within Marshall wouldn’t allow his father to walk away.

“Dr. Cooper says that just because Mom has a new boyfriend, that doesn’t make her a whore.”

Travis stopped in the doorway and turned around. He had that dead, mean look on his face, those flat eyes.

Marshall felt the urge to rush to Maggie’s defense; he didn’t want to hear his father call her a whore, too.

“She’s a good person,” he said, realizing too late that he was repeating what he’d said a second ago about Charlene.

“She’s a good person. She’s a good person,” Travis mimicked nastily. “If they were any good, Son? Trust me. They wouldn’t want anything to do with you.”

The words landed like a spray of acid, corrosive, burning through his skin. Anger deserted him, replaced with a tide of shame. Marshall felt his voice grow small inside his chest, a powerlessness settle over him. He was shrinking. He braced himself for a verbal battering, but instead his father deflated in the doorway. His eyes took on a kind of glassy quality, and he seemed lost in looking at something high above Marshall’s head. Then he turned and walked away. Marshall didn’t even feel strong enough to hate him.

He turned back to the screen and was surprised to see he had a new message. When he saw that it was from Charlene, he almost couldn’t believe his eyes.

Hey, Marshall, it read. Are you still good for that ride? Can you meet me on Persimmon and Hydrangea?

When Charlie awoke, there was a moment before he remembered where he was and how he’d gotten there. He was aware of the sick pounding behind his eyes that came when he drank too much red wine. Then he was aware of the soft, clean bedding, so unlike the dirty, tangled mess he slept in at home. And then there was the measured breathing of a woman sleeping beside him. Slowly, the dawning, the memory of the evening, crept into his consciousness. This would usually be the moment when he rooted around on the floor for his clothes, crept naked from the bedroom, dressed hastily in the hallway, bathroom, living room-wherever-and got out as fast as possible.

But he didn’t feel the urge to do that. He turned instead to look at her, the lines of her. The round of her shoulder, the swell of her hip beneath the sheet, the curl of her fingers and hollow of her palm resting on the pillow beside her face. Oh, she was pretty, in a real way. She didn’t need to dye her hair or wear so much makeup. She didn’t have the kind of beauty that washed off, got stale, smeared on the pillow. She had peaches-and-cream skin and washed-denim, kitty-shaped eyes. Maybe in the first blush of youth she’d been a killer, a bombshell. But age had revealed the mettle of her beauty; it would not fade with time.

Her breath smelled of peppermint, which told him that she’d gotten up to brush her teeth after he’d drifted off. There was something about that, something nice.

There’s something about you, Charlie. I always feel like I’m going to show up for work one day and you’ll be gone. You’ll have gotten on to that thing you’ve been meaning to do all the while you were doing this. Every day I see you, I’m a little surprised. You know what I mean?

She’d said it with a certain kind of wistful sadness that touched him, that flattered him. He liked that she saw him this way.

I do know what you mean, Wanda.

So what is it? What is this thing you’ve been meaning to do?

I write. He looked down and cleared his throat. It was embarrassing, as though he was in love with a movie star, or hoping to summit Everest. I’m a writer.

When he looked back at her, she was smiling. Not laughing, not giving him that Good luck, don’t quit your day job derisive kind of smirk.

I knew it, she said. I knew it.

He felt something shift inside him, something move and start to grow. The look on her face made him want to be what she clearly thought he was, someone with a secret talent, someone who was marking time until he got his big break.

In her sleep, she shifted closer to him. His bladder ached. He held it awhile, not wanting to break the spell of lying there beside her. But eventually, nature would not be denied. He moved quietly to the small bathroom. When he shut the door and turned on the light, he was greeted with his reflection in a full-length mirror. He was shocked by how bad he looked, how pasty and out of shape.

He could have lived with fat. You had a passion for food, you got big because of it. Whatever. He, on the other hand, took no enjoyment whatsoever from the garbage he habitually ate-bags of chips and tubs of soda, all manner of fast food, Taco Bell and McDonald’s most often, Burger King in a pinch. And his physiology didn’t allow him to get fat exactly-not big and round, not pink and portly. His torso looked like a spent white pillar candle, flesh drooping. In the light he appeared as underdeveloped as an adolescent, very little muscle tone, even in his chest or arms. He doubted he could run a mile, bench-press a hundred pounds.

In clothes, he looked okay. But naked, he could barely stand the sight of himself. A body in utter neglect. He looked away, turned on the water for privacy, and emptied his bladder into a spotlessly clean white toilet. At least he had a fairly decent-size schlong. Wanda hadn’t seemed to notice his other failings, though she’d kept the lights low.

Lots of flowers everywhere in Wanda’s house. On the shower curtain, a kind of retro floral print in pink and brown, matching rugs, towels, and accessories-soap dish, tissue box cover. Downstairs, he’d noticed it, too, when they drank wine on her couch. Everything was nicely put together, cozy throws and plush pillows, all coordinating. Not expensive things, but the kind of stuff you would get at Target. Her place was cute, with some thought behind it. She was a woman with style but a limited budget. He noticed these things, the kinds of things other men missed. The details told the story, revealed the person. The way she hung up her coat rather than throw it on the couch. How there was a little shelf on the table in the foyer where she put her purse. The way she didn’t check her messages, even though the light was blinking. How everything was orderly, had a place, how her dishes and glasses all matched.

His mother had never been much of a homemaker, and his place was an afterthought. It wasn’t a hovel or a pigsty; he was fairly tidy, cleaned occasionally. But Wanda seemed to devote a lot of energy to her home. He liked that she cared about herself, about where she lived. This was a good thing.

He quietly opened the medicine cabinet and found neat little rows of nail polish, shades of pink and red, a couple of tiny sample tubes of various moisturizers, a little jar of cotton balls, a bottle of aspirin, some pain-relief ointment, a plastic box of Q-tips. It was all so clean, so precise. Everything was carefully placed, labels facing out. Something about the colors of everything made him think of a candy shop. He’d done this before, opened medicine cabinets-in the homes of his clients, or women he’d slept with. The contents never failed to turn him off. He’d find all manner of remedies-antifungal cream, depilatories, hemorrhoid pads, sedatives, old, twisted tubes of unidentified lotions. Medicine cabinets, places where people were confident no strangers would ever enter, could be very telling. He wouldn’t go so far as to say that the medicine cabinet was an allegory for the soul. But when he found things dirty, disorganized, the little shelves packed with expired medications and leaking containers, it made him wonder about the owner, what his or her inner life was like. His own medicine cabinet was a virtual biohazard-God only knew what was in there.

He heard something outside, a whisper. Quietly, he closed the door. Then he washed his hands, turned off the water, and shut the lights. He stepped back into the bedroom.

“When I woke up, for a minute, I thought you were gone.”

“I’m still here,” he said, standing by the bed. “Do you want me to go?”

“No,” she said. “Don’t.” She patted the bed beside her, and he climbed back in beside the heat of her body, pulled her to him. She moved to him easily and wrapped her arms around him. Then his mouth was on hers; he felt the soft press of her breasts against his chest, grew hard and hungry for her again. His whole body shuddered when she climbed on top of him and then lowered herself onto him, began moving in slow, deep circles.

Watching her, the fullness of her breasts, the halo of her hair, he thought, How did I get this lucky? This pretty, kind woman, so sweet and smart, seems to actually like me. He took her breast in his mouth, and she released a throaty groan, a sound that rocketed through him, so nakedly did it reveal her pleasure. She seemed to him a gem in a jewelry store window. Somehow she’d been overlooked, her value diminished by the time she’d remained on display. He wanted to secret her away, claim her, before she realized her true worth and shunned the meager things he could offer her.

Later, she slept and he lay beside her charged with energy, filled with something he almost didn’t recognize, it had been so long. Inspiration. Unable to drift off again, he pulled on his underwear and traveled downstairs, wandered into the kitchen and got himself a glass of water from the tap. He felt at home, as comfortable as if they’d been dating awhile and this was his regular habit. He wandered out the front door and sat on one of the cushioned chairs on the large veranda. It was way too cold to be outside mostly naked, but he didn’t care. He was a furnace; the cold air made his skin tingle. He felt alive. A wind chime hanging by the door. Tiny bells. A rustling of leaves.

Then, some movement across the street caught his eye. There was a girl, with spiky hot pink and black hair a riot on top of her head, carrying a backpack. She stood beside some old muscle car with a faded green paint job. He could hear the powerful rumble of its engine.

He could see the pale skin of her neck, the top of her head. Her face was obscured by the landscaping surrounding the veranda.

She seemed to be talking to the driver. Curiosity lifted Charlie from his seat and brought him to the railing. Her voice carried across the street, but the words were lost in a wind that picked up and set the chimes to singing again.

He could see her face now. She was young, pretty-she didn’t look afraid or angry, maybe a little sad. A fight with her boyfriend, he guessed. The poor guy was probably sitting in the car, begging her to get back inside. Charlie watched as the girl looked up and down the street uncertainly, then climbed inside the vehicle. He didn’t know what time it was. Too late for a young girl to be out with her boyfriend, he thought. Of course, he’d have thought differently when he was sixteen or seventeen.

As the car disappeared up the street, he went back into the house. Wanda was sitting on the couch in his shirt, drinking a glass of water.

“You okay?” she asked with a little frown. “It’s cold to be outside in your undies.”

He patted his belly self-consciously and gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Lots of insulation,” he said. She gave him a flirty glance under her lashes and a quick shake of her head. “You look good to me, cowboy.”

He sat beside her, and she moved into him-so easy, so familiar. He dropped his arm around her shoulder. “To answer your question, I’m great, Wanda. I’m better than I’ve been in ages.”

She gazed up at him and smiled wide. “Me, too.”

In a moment, they were at it again-glass on the table, shirt on the floor. Just before he lost himself in another earthquake with Wanda, he noticed the time: 11:33.