and French-braided, accentuating the sweet, clean lines of her neck. She wore black teardrop earrings and a cool- pink denim dress that hugged her hips. In her arms were bags of Chinese takeout.
When we'd lived together, Chinese had been the cue for dinner in bed.
Back in the good old days I'd have led her into the bedroom, Joe Suave.
But two years apart and a reconciliation that was still confusing had shaken my instincts. I took the bags, placed them on the dining room table, and kissed her lightly on the lips.
She put an arm around me, pressed the back of my head, and enlarged the kiss.
When we broke for breath she said, 'I hope this is okay-not going out?'
'I've been out plenty today.'
'Me too. Delivering the Stealths to the boys' hotel. They wanted me to stay and party.'
'They've got better taste in women than in music.'
She laughed, kissed me again, pulled back, and did some exaggerated heavy breathing.
'Enough with the hormones,' she said. 'First things first. Let me heat this up and we'll have ourselves an indoor picnic.'
She took the food into the kitchen. I hung back and watched her move.
All these years I'd never tired of watching her move.
The dress was nouveau-rodeo sweetheart-lots of leather fringe and old lace on the yoke. She wore ankle-high boots that echoed sharply on the kitchen floor. Her braid swung as she walked. So did the rest of her but I found myself looking at the braid. Shorter than Cindy Jones's and auburn instead of dark-brown, but it got me thinking about the hospital again.
She deposited the bags on the counter, started to say something, then realized I hadn't followed her in. Looking over her shoulder, she said, 'Something the matter, Alex?'
'No,' I lied, 'just admiring.'
One of her hands darted to her hair and I realized she was nervous.
That made me want to kiss her again.
I said, 'You look gorgeous.'
She flashed a smile that tightened my chest and held out her arms. I went into the kitchen.
'Tricky,' she said later, trying to knit my chest hair with chopsticks.
'The idea,' I said, 'is to show your devotion by knitting me a sweater.
Not turning me into one.'
She laughed. 'Cold moo goo. What a gourmet treat.
At this moment, wet sand on toast would be okay.' I stroked her face.
Placing the chopsticks on the nightstand, she moved closer. Our sweaty flanks stuck together and made wet-plastic noises. She turned her hand into a glider and flew it over my chest, barely touching skin.
Propping herself up, she bumped her nose against mine, kissed my chin.
Her hair was still braided. As we'd made love, I'd held it, passing the smooth rope between my fingers, finally letting go when I began to lose control, for fear of hurting her. Some of the curly strands had come loose and they tickled my face. I smoothed them back and nuzzled her under her chin.
Her head lifted. She massaged my chest some more, stopped, inspected, looped a finger under a single hair, and said, 'Hrnm.'
'What?'
