there— ah, I’m acting like such a kid,” “Because I know what you’ll want to do and why wouldn’t you?” and he says “Well, why not then? — it’s cold, we’re warm, I love you, you don’t hate me, we’ve made naughty-naughty together before and a couple of times swore we wouldn’t do something and then did and enjoyed it — hey, I’m making a bit pitch here, baby, a really big one,” and she says “Just the couch, with clothes, I’d love holding you all night,” so they get on it, no pullout, blankets over them which keep falling off and she picks up and both of them put back on, he on the inside holding her tight for one reason afraid she’ll fall off and then give up on it and sleep alone in bed, he can’t take his pants off, though asks, because he has no undershorts, she just in underpants and bra and socks, once puts his hand down her pants, she slaps his wrist lightly and pulls his hand out, “Too bad, for I swear it’d be wonderful if you let it or just left my hand in there, I wouldn’t let my fingers do anything,” “I’m sure so but no thanks, let’s go to sleep,” breakfast, kiss before he leaves, says he’ll call her, she says she’ll be around all week, doesn’t, not the next three weeks he’s in New York, hated the horniness, his cornballness, didn’t really sleep, tired entire next day, raised hopes though told himself not to, rest of it, no more, forget it, whole thing’s such delusory nonsensicalness, seeing her, wanting to see her, dying to sleep with her, pining away for her, walking the streets thinking of her and hoping he’ll bump into her, to have her love him, what shit, crock of, he could never understand her ever, get that, he’s sure of it, so good luck to the next guy, and in a way a lucky guy, her face, shape and spark, et cetera, for it could only be with a new guy, his with her is marked, and if she calls he’ll tell her or politely as he can say to her to get lost, no, that it’s best they don’t see each other, for him, her, in the long run and no explanation if she asks for one, which he doubts she will — she won’t, she’ll just say all right if that’s how he feels or what he wants — but thanks, he’ll say, and after he hangs up: but no thanks, you little skunk, none. Goes back to California. Lots of things happen. Writes her care of her parents three years later when he’s working for a big systems analysis firm in L. A. doing technical writing. Just to say how are you, been a long time, was thinking of her, what’s been happening, curious. Gets a letter from her from some small town in Northern California saying she’s been on the coast for a year, thought he might still be in California, wanted to write his old school on the Peninsula but wasn’t sure what department or that if she got the right one it’d forward the mail of one of its former grad students, didn’t want to ask his mother because of how she’s felt about her contacting him, living with a logger/master woodcarver and never been happier: California’s a dream state: the ease, people, nature, weather, opportunities and room — she doesn’t see how she could live anywhere else. If he’s ever around here, stop by; they’ve a guest cottage Milton built overlooking the ocean and mountains and she’d love showing him the area; though she can no longer stand the East, she still gets a craving for intellectual easterners with something to say, and he might like it so such he’d move up here. Few months later he’s flying to San Francisco for a job interview and calls her, thinking he can rent a car and spend a day with her. Man who answers gives him another number to call. She says she got married last month — not to the logger-carver but to someone, if he can believe it, and it was the greatest mistake of her life, she’d only met a few weeks before, and left him a day after the ceremony and is now getting an annulment. She’d rather not see anyone now and once this is over she’s driving straight to New York; she’s already got a sublet and gives him the address and phone number, years later his first book’s reviewed in a New York newspaper; she sends him a letter care of his publisher, congratulating him on the book and being reviewed in such a prestigious place, “even if she impaled and then poleaxed you before dragging your body through the mud — the stinker; imagine doing that to a first book and one, between her lines, that sounds so promising,” asks him to call her if he gets a chance. Calls: she’s married, husband’s a filmmaker, no kids but they’re trying, renting a house in New Jersey, taking courses in botany and library science at a state college nearby, doing volunteer work for the town library which she’ll become the paid librarian of once she gets her degree; since she hardly ever gets into the city, invites him for dinner out there. He borrows a car. Her husband’s not home when he gets there and they sit on the grass in the backyard, beer and cheese and crackers, she tells him the names of all the trees, flowers and shrubs and even the grass and weeds around the place and what bird and insect sounds they’re hearing, he says he always wanted to know things like that and about mushrooms and rocks and how to navigate a boat just by the stars, asks if she’s read any good books or new poets or seen any plays lately and she says she ordered his book for the town library but it hasn’t arrived yet so she hasn’t read it. “Of course I could have ordered it for myself from the bookstore — I looked for it just to browse through but they didn’t have it — but the price was a bit steep; we’re always short so never buy new hardcovers, even by good friends.” “I should have brought a copy for you and Braxton, but I felt that’d be pushing it on you.” “Good news is there are already six people on the library reserve list for your book — four from my pep talks about you — but since I work there, my name’s on top. After I read it I’ll give you another review.” “I don’t know if it’ll be favorable, since one of the pieces is about when our engagement busted up and is pretty close to the original.” “I’ve been written about before but nobody’s come near to getting me the way I see myself. I’d almost write about myself to get it right, but I found out I’m a lousy writer. Anyway, so long as you didn’t use my name or my parents’ names and disguised me a little — more to show you’re just not a reporter — write what you like.” “I forget what I called you. Jackson, and where the reader never knows if that’s your first or last name.” Wonders how come she never changes? Face, manner, temperament, same high pointy breasts and tiny waist and bouncy gait and so on, while he’s lost most of his hair since they first met, jowls and deep face creases, little heavier and slower but not much, less sensitive and responsive, darker, grimmer, more downbeat a person — almost everyone says so — doesn’t try as hard for good fellow-feeling or jokes. Phone rings and she goes to answer it, comes back with more beer for them and sits. For a moment he saw her white panties and he thinks a patch of hair sticking out there; skirt’s above her knees; same fuzz on her legs. Braxton, asking her to extend his apologies to him for being late and saying he’s leaving the office in half an hour and it takes him, she says, another half-hour to get here. Wants the phone to ring again so she can get up to answer it and then sit down opposite him again so he can again see her panties. What if, no this is ridiculous. But what if she said now, though she’s given and is giving no sign of it, “You think we can quickly make love?” Of course saying something a little before it. “You’re probably not going to like this idea, Howard…” “You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been thinking, Howard…” He’d do it, is sure of it, since almost all he can think about now is putting his lips on her lips and then on her legs. After, he’d say to himself he’s such a bastard, she’s the only married woman he’d do it with who’s trying to get pregnant by her husband. He’d carry on with her in the city if she wanted, and for as long as she wanted, but always asking her to divorce Braxton before she gets pregnant by one of them — he wouldn’t want any doubt as to whose kid it is — and marry him. She did get pregnant and wasn’t sure whose it was but wanted to marry him, he’d say to get rid of it or prove through some tests it’s his. She didn’t want to get married but wanted to have the baby one of them had got her pregnant with, he’d have to assume it was Braxton’s or if it wasn’t that Braxton would be the father to it, and that would probably be the end of their relationship. Braxton’s nice, polite, tall, broad shoulders, build of an ex-college swimmer, big mop of hair, plain-looking, little fat in the face, pinholes on the nose, pants keep sliding down because he has no behind, quiet — maybe because Howard’s there and been so talkative — not very intelligent, it seems, though maybe he’s holding back there too. But one knows: way he responds, lack of questions, choice of words, things he picks to discuss, flat expression, nothing in the eyes; it’s surely what he’d like to believe. They seem close. Howard and she were inside by then and she rushed to the door when he came in and kissed him; before that, when she heard a car pulling up in front, she said “That’s Brax, I recognize the muffler,” and beamed, looked out the window, stopped their conversation cold. Braxton likes to skydive—“That’s his biggest passion,” she said; “we take vacations around it”—water-ski, rock climb, camp out, snorkel, chop logs into kindling, takes boxing lessons, used to fence, his reading’s mostly work research and magazines about these things. “Do you play chess?” she said in the backyard;