bones. No reference to tomorrow.
No reference to later tonight.
It was after eleven by the time we’d finished coffee and tiramisu.
Hooch/Boyd greeted us at the door of the annex. When I unpegged his leash, the chow yelped and bounded around the kitchen.
“Hooch does appreciate the small things,” Ryan said.
Again, I pointed out that the dog’s name was Boyd.
“And he’s flexible,” Ryan added.
The night smelled of petunias and mown grass. A light breeze ruffled the periwinkle. A million crickets performed a summer symphony in the round.
Boyd led us from tree to tree, tail and nose working double-time, now and then flushing a bird or squirrel. Every few seconds he’d loop back, as though reminding us to stay focused on him.
I wasn’t. My mind was in countdown to plunge.
Back home, Boyd went straight to his bowl, guzzled water, blew air like a baleen, and flopped on the floor.
I hung up the leash and locked the door. As I set the alarm, I felt the warmth of Ryan’s body inches from mine.
With one hand Ryan took my wrist and turned me to him. With the other he reached up and flicked off the light. I smelled Irish Spring and cotton tinged with male sweat.
Pressing close, Ryan raised my hand and laid it against his cheek.
I looked up. His face was swallowed in shadow.
Ryan brought my other hand up. My fingertips felt the features I’d known for a decade. Cheekbones, a corner of his mouth, the angle of his jaw.
Ryan stroked my hair. His fingers slithered down the sides of my neck, moved across my shoulders.
Outside, my wind chime tinkled gaily.
Ryan’s hands glided over the curves of my waist, my hipbones.
A strange sensation flooded my brain, like something remembered from a distant dream.
Ryan’s lips brushed mine.
I drew in my breath. No. It drew in of its own accord.
Ryan kissed me hard on the mouth.
I kissed back.
Let go, every cell in my brain commanded.
My arms went around Ryan’s neck. I drew him to me, heart racing like some wild, frightened thing.
Ryan’s hands moved to my back. I felt my zipper slide down. His hands rose, eased the straps from my shoulders. I lowered my arms.
Black linen pooled at my feet.
All the sadness and frustration and unfulfilled desire of the past few days evaporated in that instant. The kitchen receded. The earth. The cosmos.
My fingers sought the buttons on the cornflower shirt.
10
PALMER COUSINS, KATY, AND I WERE IN MONTREAL, SIPPING CAPPUCCINOS at an outdoor cafe. Across the way a street busker was playing the spoons.
Palmer was describing a yoga class to which participants brought their dogs.
Instead of clacking, the spoons began shrilling in the busker’s hands. The noise grew louder and louder until I couldn’t understand what my daughter’s friend was saying.
I opened my eyes.
And looked at the back of Ryan’s head.
And felt like a kid who’d given it up on prom night.
Turning onto my side, I groped for the phone.
“—lo?” Groggy.
“Tim Larabee.”
I felt Ryan roll over behind me.
“Sorry to wake you.” The ME didn’t sound all that sorry.
Scooping me by the waist, Ryan tucked my bum into the angle formed by his hips and thighs. My breath came out with a soft “Hmff.”
