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“Yes, take it off,” I say.

He lifts it off my eyes and I look up at him. He is smiling, satisfied.

“How was that?” he asks.

“I’m pretty sure you could tell how it was.”

“I want to hear you tell me.”

“It was . . . ecstasy.”

There’s a word I never thought I’d say out loud, especially in my forties.

“ Ecstasy is what I like to hear,” he says.

He is still hovering over me, on all fours. He dips his head to gently kiss my mouth. When I look down, I can see the erection in his pants and am impressed he doesn’t feel compelled to tend to it (or have me tend to it).

“Are you some kind of sex god?” I ask.

“We didn’t have sex.”

“Touché,” I say. Then: “Are you some kind of erotic massage god?”

He laughs.

“I’m a little bit into tantra.”

I sit up, balanced on my elbows. “You’re a little bit into tantra.”

“I dabble.”

“You dabble.”

He shrugs.

“I don’t wear sarongs and chant or anything. I just like to read about how to please women.”

He lies beside me. I swing a leg over him, feeling him hard beneath my thigh. Everything in me wants to pleasure him. I hate that I’m so uncomfortable—guilty, almost—in the role of receiver. Overcome with the need to give, I caress him down there. He places his hand over mine.

“I told you the rules. You don’t get to do anything for me today,” he says.

I sigh.

“You need to get used to being cared for,” he says. “You deserve to be cared for.”

Surprise tears come again, just like last time. Except I’m not thinking about my dad. I’m thinking about his words, how true they are, how I’ve given up on anyone in the world ever expressing such a sentiment to me.

You deserve to be cared for.

“Thank you,” I say, still welling up.

He presses down my eyelids with each of his thumbs so that the dam breaks and the tears flow. Then he kisses my cheeks.

“I’m going to make you some dinner.”

He makes macadamia-crusted mahi-mahi, restaurant quality, along with roasted fingerling potatoes and a salad. I tell him I’m not sure how he’s real, and he says he’s not sure how I’m real. Mutual awe, borderline bewilderment—this is what all humans should seek in a lover.

We eat at his tiny kitchen table. He asks about my dad, and I tell him the ugly truths. He does not say anything stupid like “Well, he won’t suffer much longer” or “Everything will be okay soon.” He just listens and nods, behaving the way all women want men to behave.

“Tell me something about you I don’t know,” he says.

I try to think of something true.

“I used to be a photographer,” I say, both embarrassed and surprised that this is the truth that has risen to the surface.

His eyes widen. “Used to?”

“I haven’t done it in years.”

“Why not?”

I look at my plate, feeling suddenly exposed, uneasy with his eye contact, his desire to truly know me.

“You know, life gets in the way. It’s not like I was really good or anything.”

Though I was, I think. Once.

“What does that even mean— good ? Who cares? If you enjoy it, you should do it.”

I shrug, still looking at my plate. “Maybe.”

“What kind of photography?”

I dare to look up now. “Nature, mostly. Landscapes.”

“A creative soul,” he says. “I’m not surprised.”

“You’re not?”

“Of course not. You have that energy.”

“That energy?”

“Like, a zest. An appetite for life. A desire to look beneath the surface.”

How does he see this?

“I’d love to see some of your work,” he says.

I wave him off. “It’s literally been years. I don’t even have anything on my phone or—”

He holds up both hands in submission. “Hey now, no pressure. You don’t have to show me a thing. I’m just saying I’d love to see it. I’d love to see what your eye captures, what your mind thinks should be in a shot. I’d love to hear you talk about what was just outside the frame. That’s all.”

I try to picture Kyle asking about the intricacies of my photography. The most commentary he ever gave me was to say “That’s a nice one.” He was never curious about the process. I think he would have rolled his eyes at the idea that there was a process.

“You sound like you know a bit about photography yourself,” I say.

He smiles. “I dabble.”

“Quite the dabbler.”

“There are so many interesting things. Can’t help but dabble.”

We eat in silence for a few minutes, taking the last few bites of our food. Then I work up the nerve to admit something, a confession that’s lodged itself in my throat.

“I’m afraid I’m falling for you,” I say.

“What’s so scary about that?”

He reaches across the table, takes my hands in his.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m falling for you too.”

Because I am a terrible person, I don’t even think about Merry or the girls until Elijah falls asleep next to me in bed, his beautiful mouth partly open, emitting the softest of snores. Would this adorable snore bother me at some point? What kind of alternate dimension am I in now, exactly?

I reach into my purse for my phone to see two missed calls from Merry and three texts. I break out into a sweat as I unlock my phone and read the texts.

Sorry to bother you. Do the girls have toothbrushes? I know you’ve mentioned how they need to brush their teeth well.

Then:

I will probably just use one of my extra adult toothbrushes. Okay?

Then:

Never mind, I found theirs! Sorry!

I will my heart to slow as I realize everything is fine. There’s nothing wrong. It could have been something, though—a visit to the ER for a broken bone, a child wandering out the front door, now missing. My face hot with shame, my hands shaking, I text Merry:

Weird. I just got your texts and missed calls now. Everything Ok ?

It’s just after nine. She should still be up. The girls should be asleep.

Thankfully, she responds right away.

Everything is fine here. The girls are asleep!

The exclamation mark soothes my guilt-ridden soul.

Ok , great! Glad to hear! Sorry again! Not sure what happened with my phone!

My relief has resulted in the manic use of four exclamation marks.

I’m going to bed. Hope you’re having a nice time with Prisha!

I look next to me at Elijah’s sleeping form, the perfection of him.

I am. See you tomorrow.

The next morning, I wake up curled into Elijah’s body.

“I’m the big C and you’re the little c ,” he says.

I am not into this metaphor, as it reminds me of teaching Grace her letters. She persists in writing the C backward and yells at me when I attempt to correct her.

“Do I keep you too warm at night?” I ask.

His hand is reaching underneath my arm, cupping my breast.

“You are a little heater,” he says.

He kisses my ear, sucks on the lobe.

“Hey now,” I say. “It’s my turn.”

I lean back into him until he relents and lies back on the bed. I climb on top of him, one knee on either side of his middle.

“Where’s that blindfold?” I ask.

He reaches into his nightstand, throws it to me. I put it on him, feeling both turned on and silly. There is something nice, though, about him not being able to see what I’m doing. He seems so vulnerable, helpless, at my mercy.

I am not nearly as patient as he was with me. I don’t have the same ability to pace myself. I start with gentle kisses from his toes up to his lips, but then I get right to putting him in my mouth. He doesn’t object. I suppose when it’s my turn, it’s my rules.

“Do you want me to come?” he asks. I can tell he’s close.

“If you want to.”

“I’d rather come with you.”

“I came so many times yesterday,” I say. “The score would be very uneven.”

I’m already relenting, though, already positioning myself atop him.

“You need to stop keeping score,” he says.

I put him inside me, and within a few minutes, we come together.

I collapse on his chest, and we breathe in unison, our bodies moving up and down as one.

“I don’t want you to go,” he says once we have caught our breath.

I trace each finger of his hand with my fingertip.

“I don’t want to go.”

“I’m sure you want to see your dad before you drive home, though, right?”

“I do.”

“Can I make you breakfast first?”

“I would love that.”

He makes omelets with a side of potatoes left over from last night’s dinner.

Watching him cut strawberries for a fruit salad, I’m dumbstruck.

I am falling in love with this person who I know so well and also not at all.

My self is splitting between a woman who is embarking on something new with him and a woman who is two decades into a life with someone else.

How long will it be possible for both identities to exist, to compartmentalize?

“Here you go, my dear,” he says. He presents me with my plate and kisses my nose before turning to assemble his own plate.

I suppose I don’t have to know how long it will be possible. I just have to know that, at some point, it will not be possible. At some point, the proverbial shit will hit the fan. And I don’t know which version of myself will be left standing.