Rick’s cell phone rang while he was at work. He should have let it go to voicemail, and would have, had he not looked and saw it was Linda.
“Hi,” he said, not without some trepidation.
She was crying.
“Linda, what’s wrong?”
It took a moment for her to speak.
“She’s…she’s dead,” Linda said and began crying again.
“Who’s dead?”
She took a moment to compose herself, her breathing unsteady. “Cleo,” she sniffed. “She ran out the open door, ran out to the middle of the street and got smooshed by a car.” She was sobbing now, struggling to control herself.
“Oh honey, I’m so sorry.”
“Hey Rick, c’mon.” Smitty was calling on him to quit yakking, and lift the next pallet up into the truck. “Look sweetheart, you caught me in the middle of work. Let me call you back during my next break, okay. It’ll be in less than an hour.”
“Okay,” she sobbed. “Call me back. Promise me you’ll call me back.”
“I will, I promise, I’ll call you back as soon as I can, okay?”
“Rick, goddammit!”
Rick was operating the forklift. Everybody was waiting on him.
“Look, sweetheart, I gotta go.” He hung up, slipped his phone in the pocket of his work vest and put the forklift into gear.
Honey? Sweetheart? Pet names he never thought he’d say again, not after what had occurred in his apartment a month ago, when she, in effect, broke up with him.
But did she break up with him? It could be argued that he broke up with her. She was only trying to be honest with him. Honest in telling him how she was more “physically” attracted to this other man she’d met, this Roy, who supposedly was taller than Rick, had bigger hands and feet, which, as everyone knows, means he’s bigger in that other way as well, physically speaking. Physical was her chosen word that day. Yes, she admitted, to being “physical” with him once, no, twice, once at her place, and once at his. “You mean you had sex with him?” he half asked, half stated. He didn’t know why she couldn’t come right out and say it. She simply nodded.
Perhaps Rick was old fashioned. Call him old school, but the bottom line: he held deep feelings for Linda. They’d been together for more than a year already, and it pained him to think of her having sex with someone else, someone with bigger hands and feet. That she should leave was the next to the last thing he’d said to her that day. The next to the last thing she said to him was “I’m sorry.” “Please go,” he said. “Goodbye,” she said, and that was how it ended.
And now?
When break finally came, Rick jumped from the forklift and parted from crew as they headed toward the break room. He tucked himself away in a remote corner in the warehouse to make his call. The lack of insulation made it colder inside than the March weather was outside; his hand shivered after he took off his glove and dialed her number. Or was it nerves? He paused, took in a deep breath before pressing call.
After several rings a roommate answered Linda’s phone, “Hello Rick, it’s Cynthia.”
“Is Linda there? Is she all right?”
“Yes, she’s here, and no, she’s not all right. She’s sleeping now, and I’m hesitant to wake her.”
“No, don’t do that,” he said and found himself at a loss for anything more to say. “Tell her I called, will you?”
“Of course,” she said.
But before hanging up Rick said, “Cynthia, can I ask you something?”
“Sure, what is it?”
“Why did Linda call me? I mean, why didn’t she call this other guy, what’s his name? Roy?”
“Who’s Roy?” she asked.
“Never mind,” he said. “Just tell her I called.”
“Will do,” she said and hung up.
Linda called that evening after he’d just finished a bowl of re-heated chili and was on the couch watching television. He muted the sound before answering.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m sorry about calling you at work.” Her voice was still shaky and weak, but more composed than before.
“No, it’s all right.”
“How are you?” she asked. Curious question.
“Never mind about me. How are you? That’s the real question.”
“Oh, I’m all right…” she said, her voice trailing. “Considering.”
“Look, if there’s anything I can do, any way I could help you get through this.” He knew how much that cat meant to her. She often called it her baby. She must be devastated.
“Actually, there is.”
“Anything.”
“Can you come by tomorrow?” Tomorrow was Saturday. “Are you busy?”
“No, of course. I can come by anytime.”
“How about around noontime then.”
“I’ll see you then.”
“Rick?” she said
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“Thank me for what?”
“Thank you for taking my call. For being there for me.”
He held back the words, I will always be there for you, Linda, and said instead, “You don’t have to thank me.”
He could hear she was on the verge of losing it again. “Look, why don’t you get some rest, and I’ll see you tomorrow at noon, okay?”
“Okay. Goodnight Rick.”
“Goodnight Linda.”
Linda lived outside of town in an old, rustic four-bedroom farmhouse she shared with three other women, Carol, Cynthia, and Jen. Although the official start of spring was just two days away, all of the trees surrounding the house had yet to show buds; everything looked dead and wintery. As he pulled into their driveway, Rick noted one other car, Jen’s Volvo, parked in the front yard next to Linda’s Toyota. Not once, he considered, in the whole time they’d been dating, did they ever have the farmhouse to themselves. He parked his VW in back of Linda’s car on the off chance that Jen might have to run out somewhere. For a time he imagined Linda would arrange to have at least one housemate present during any of his visits as a sort of chaperone. Why should things be any different now? At least they had the privacy of her bedroom on nights when he’d stay over. Did Roy have to contend with her room-mates? Curious that Cynthia never heard of him? He knew he would have to let all of that go, at least for now. He was there now to comfort and console, not recriminate.
On his way toward the front entrance, he surveyed the distance between the door and the road. It had to have been a good two hundred feet or more. For Cleo to run out and onto the road, she would have had to do it with some intent. Were cats capable of suicide? Another question he knew he’d have to keep to himself.
Jen must have seen him pull in. She opened the door and stood on the threshold as he approached.
“How’s she doing?” he asked.
Stout, butch-like, her spiky hair crimson where it’d been blue before, Jen rolled her eyes, sighed, and said. “Well, it’s been one hell of a roller coaster ride around here.” Jen had little patience with human emotion.
She led him through the vestibule and into the parlor.
It was exactly as he’d remembered it. Everything from the tchotchkes above the fireplace, to the throw pillows on the couch, to the small assortment of glamour mags and large picture books fanned across the coffee table, all thought out and perfectly arranged. Never anything out of place. They kept the house like a museum. And like in a museum, when he stood there, he felt pressured not to touch. This supreme orderliness was limited to the common areas in the house, however; Linda’s bedroom had always been a mess: clothes randomly piled over her desk and chair, the bed haphazardly made, if made at all. He never once got so much as a peek inside the other bedroom doors of the house, but if the upstairs bathroom were an indication, with its clutter of feminine products, intimate apparel, and tangled web of power cords tied to blow dryers, curling irons, and hair straighteners, these women shared two radically different universes.
“Is Linda upstairs?”
She looked at him as though he said something peculiar, then shook her head and said, “No, she’s out on the porch with Cleo.”
He started to go, but stopped. The porch with Cleo? He turned to ask, but Jen had already left the room.
He trekked from the parlor to the dining room. Pedestal table, matching chairs, sideboard, and china closet filled with fine china, all, like the parlor, furnished with mid-nineteenth century antiques; all like the house, property of the landlord. All Jen, Cynthia, Carol, and Linda carried with them when they moved in were suitcases. He entered the kitchen: shaker table, with matching chairs, matching hutch brandishing decorative plates, and antique potbelly stove, all immaculate and arranged like a photo layout for a magazine. Where do they eat? he wondered, and crossed over to the door with the drawn window shade at the far end of the room that led out to the porch.
The porch was actually an enclosed, three-season room used during the winter to store lawn furniture, yard supplies, the grill and mower, and a bunch of stuff from inside the house. Rick entered and quickly pulled the door shut behind him to prevent the chill from spreading into the rest of the house. There, in the tawny daylight that bled through the drawn window shades, stood Linda with her back to him, her dark hair cowling the back of her neck and shoulders.
“Linda?” he said, zipping up his jacket.
She did not respond.
He stepped down from the threshold and approached. She was doing something with her left arm. She wore jeans and just a thin cotton sweater. “You must be freezing,” he said, placing his hand upon her shoulder. She didn’t flinch. Her arm stopped moving.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” she half whispered. She was speaking of Cleo, whom she’d been stroking, who laid half wrapped in a blanket atop a stack of storage bins in front of her.
Cleo, short for Cleopatra, a tan and white-striped tiger, no more than four years in age, lay on her left side, and looked undamaged considering she’d been hit by a car, her right eye closed like she was sleeping. Only her face seemed pressed a little too deep into the blanket. It had to have been that part of her face, along with the whole side of her head that was missing, or “Smooshed,” as Linda put it, by the car that hit her.
“We should go inside,” he said, knowing full well now it would be up to him to bury the cat. Was this why Linda wanted him to come by today? He was okay with that. He knew how much Cleo meant to her, and how much Linda meant to him. As to how much he meant to Linda, well, that was anyone’s guess. And where’s this Roy? Why isn’t he around to pitch in?
“Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you go inside? I’ll take care of everything. All I’ll need is a shovel. There must be one around here somewhere.” He looked around.
“No,” she said.
“No?”
“No.” she looked at him. Her soft mouth trembling, her dark, close set eyes with the ever so slight miss-directed focus that he loved so much, now puffy and red. “I’m not ready for that.”
“For what?”
“To say goodbye. I want to wait. And do it when it’s time.”
“I don’t understand…”
She shivered.
“Look, let’s go inside. It’s freezing out here.”
She nodded, turned back to the cat, pulled the blanket back over Cleo so she was completely covered, and placed her hand back on the body once more. “Goodnight my baby,” she said and let Rick usher her back into the house.
In the parlor, Linda sat on the couch and stared down at the magazines and picture books on the coffee table. Rick sat next to her. He debated putting his arm around her shoulders, and settled for placing his hand over hers instead. He happened to glance out the window and saw Jen’s car was missing. At long last they had the house all to themselves.
Rick remained on the couch next to Linda through the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. Sometime, after darkness settled in, two headlight beams swept across the front windows. “That’s Carol coming home from work,” Linda said.
Carol was startled after she entered and switched on a lamp and discovered them sitting together in the dark. “Christ, you scared me,” she said. “What? Are we trying to cut down on our utility bills?” She dropped her bag and jacket down on the chair in front of her and, still wearing her waitress uniform and sneakers, walked past them toward the dining room and kitchen. “God awful day,” she said. “Want anything?”
“No thanks,” they both called back.
She returned with full goblet of white wine, sat in the chair opposite them and proceeded to remove her sneakers. “God awful day,” she said again.
All three sat in silence for a moment or two, before Rick said, “Well, I should be heading on.”
“Oh please, don’t let me chase you away,” said Carol.
“Oh no, no it’s not that. It’s just, I’ve got some things to tend to and…”
He stood. Linda stood as well. He turned and kissed her on the forehead, after which she lifted her face and he gave her a peck on the mouth. “Call me tomorrow,” she said. “First thing?”
“I will,” he said and made his way toward the door. “Take it easy, Carol.”
“Sure you don’t want one for the road,” she offered.
“No, I’m good,” he said and left.
Yes, it was an awkward departure, much like it is when you’re in a hospital visiting a patient, and another visitor walks in, and you use that as an opportunity to make your exit.
Still, his time alone with Linda had not been a total disaster. Sad, yes, how could it not be? But the tears weren’t flowing the whole time. She even laughed on occasion, like when she reminisced about some of Cleo’s habits and idiosyncrasies, their walks together through the woods, her playful romps in the house. And yes, the topic of Roy did come up. How could it not? “He turned out to be a complete jerk,” she said dismissively. “I won’t be seeing him again.” She didn’t offer any more details, and Rick chose not to press.
The subject of his spending the night also came up. “Yes, I would like that,” she said looking at him, at that point between and slightly above his eyes. How he loved the way she looked at him. “But not tonight, okay? I’m afraid I wouldn’t be good company.”
He almost gave her an argument, but then she grasped his hand and squeezed it, and all he could do was nod. There was promise in her eyes, in her grasp; he would have to be content with that for now.
After that they talked about movies they’d like to see and about visiting the new art exhibit in town. Linda seemed almost normal again. And then Carol arrived.
As promised, Rick called her the next morning. Her voice was thick when she answered. He asked if he’d woken her and she said no, but clearly she was still in bed.
“Why don’t you come over,” she asked.
“Sure, when?”
“Right now, if you’d like,” she said, her voice sounding relaxed, normal, actually inviting. “Hurry,” she said, “I’ll be right here.”
“I’m on my way,” he said.
What was normally a twenty-five minute to drive to Linda’s, Rick made it in little over fifteen. Pulling in the driveway, he counted all three of her housemates’ cars parked in the front yard next to Linda’s, a full house, but he didn’t let that dissuade him. Like he had before, he parked in back of Linda’s car, not wanting to block anyone.
His knock on the door was soft, and when no one answered, he opened it, slipped inside and closed it. Then taking two steps at a time on his toes, hurried upstairs to where he found Linda’s bedroom door wide open, and no Linda waiting inside. He tip-toed back downstairs again, returned to the parlor and called, “Anyone home?”
“We’re in here,” came the response from the kitchen.
Rick entered the kitchen and found Carol, Cynthia and Jen all in their bathrobes, sitting at the table with their coffees; all three looking disheveled, sour and glum, and Linda, standing alone by the sink, dressed in faded blue jeans and her old UMass sweatshirt, looking like she’d been crying.
“Want coffee?” said Cynthia. Rick could feel the tension.
“No thanks,” he said.
“How is it out?” asked Linda, her voice quavering a little.
“Nice actually, sunny, warm for a change.”
“Great,” uttered Jen nastily, like he’d said something negative.
Rick felt duped. What could have happened in the fifteen minutes it took him to get here to bring all this on?
“Up for a walk?” Linda asked.
“Sure,” said Rick. Anything to get away from this doom and gloom.
Rather than taking the side door, which led out to the yard, Linda led Rick through the porch where Cleo remained in state. With the window shades still down, the porch remained significantly cooler than outside. Much like the warehouse where he worked would become a repository for the winter’s chill well into the spring. Thankfully, she did not linger this time, pausing just long enough to pat the blanket covering Cleo before exiting through the outside door. Rick felt relief come with the warmth that washed over him once he stepped outside.
She led him down a path that led to a field out in back of the house. Rick recognized it as the same path she’d sometimes walk with Cleo, whom she’d have on a leash. Concerned this walk might make her grow sadder and more withdrawn, he determined to keep the conversation light and not about Cleo. “So, what’s up with your housemates? They seemed angry when I walked in.”
“They are angry. They want me to ask you to dig a hole in the yard to put Cleo in while you’re here this morning.”
He stepped in front of her. “I already said I would. Remember? Yesterday? When I offered to…”
She stopped, and looking at the ground said, “Yes, I remember what you said.” Then to him, “You remember what I said? I said I wasn’t ready, and I’m still not ready for that to happen. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Rick could have said, “Okay, so when do you think you would be ready?” He imagined her housemates may have wanted him to ask her that, but for now Linda seemed angrier than anything else at the moment, so he let it rest as they resumed their walk in silence.
Her silence lasted for more than an hour. Rick did his best to help her snap out of it. Picking up on the conversations they had the night before, he talked again about movies, music, up-coming television episodes; none of it worked. What happened to the Linda he talked to that morning? The one who was waiting for him in bed and told him to hurry?
Finally, back at the house, the kitchen, vacated now, mugs rinsed and drying on the rack by the sink, the coffee maker cleaned and put away, he knew her housemates were still around somewhere. He could feel them. Linda slumped into one of the chairs at the table; Rick pulled up a chair and sat beside her. “Hey, I got an idea,” he said clasping her hand. “How about we head out to breakfast somewhere, or even better, head up to my place and have breakfast there? What do you say?”
She looked at him, her eyes doing that thing again, only this time she looked as if he’d just said something inappropriate. Then she softened and smiled weakly.
“You’re so sweet to come over, but I feel I need to be alone right now.”
You got to be kidding me, he almost said, but said instead, “I don’t understand.”
“I know, I know, and I’m sorry. I don’t expect you to understand. It’s just…I’ve been a little out of sorts as you can imagine.”
Rick could only nod.
“I need time to adjust, that’s all.”
“But Linda, sweetheart, why won’t you let me help.”
“You are helping. By coming over when you did yesterday, and again this morning.”
“There’s so much more I can do, if you would just let me.”
She shook her head. “No, there’s nothing more anyone can do.”
“You sure you don’t want to come back to my place, to get away from all this?”
“No please, please just go and let me have my space. I’ll call you when I’m ready.”
“Okay,” Rick said and left the kitchen. Linda did not follow him to the door.
In the car Rick tried to imagine what caused Linda to go from the sleepy sex kitten he talked to on the phone that morning, to the angry melancholic he left sitting there in the kitchen. Fifteen minutes. That’s all it took. He theorized: after she hung up the phone––that is after she said “hurry” and hung up the phone––her roomies must’ve called a house meeting, something Linda’s mentioned they do from to time, to discuss chore details, or some such thing. Linda had said they’d asked her to ask him to bury the cat. That would do it. Probably got into an argument before he got there. No wonder everyone was so glum when he arrived. Fifteen minutes. If only he’d gotten there sooner. As he pulled out and headed back to his apartment, Rick never felt more fortunate he could afford to live alone.
And he never felt more alone.
His theory gained further credence after he received a phone call from each of Linda’s three housemates over the course of the following week. First to call was Cynthia.
“Did Linda say anything to you about burying her cat?”
“She mentioned that you had asked her to ask me, but I had already offered the day before.”
“And what did she say?”
“She said no, that she wasn’t ready.”
“The poor girl,” said Cynthia.
“I know.”
“We’ll need to ask her again.”
Next to call was Carol the following night:
“Hi Rick, it’s Carol. We’re wondering if maybe you’d be willing to come by sometime and dig a hole for us to bury Cleo.”
“You need to check with Linda first.”
“But I thought she’d already asked you.”
“No, I offered, and she said she wasn’t ready.”
“Well, we have to do something. I’ll try talking to her.”
“Okay,” Rick said.
Then, on Thursday, it was Jen’s turn:
“Rick, you’ve got to come over and do something about that damn cat.”
“I will, as soon as Linda says it’s okay.”
“Fuck Linda. It’s sick to keep a dead cat rotting there on the porch.”
“As soon Linda gives the go ahead.”
“Goddammit Rick!”
“I don’t know what you want me to do,” he said.
“I just told you. You come over and bury the cat.”
“Can’t. Not until I hear from Linda.”
“Oh, fuck you both then.”
Finally, on Friday, just prior to Rick turning in for the night, Linda called:
“I think I’m ready,” she said solemnly.
It was overcast, grey and a whole lot colder the next morning when Rick drove out to Linda’s. She met him outside, took his hand and led him around the west side of the house, where a narrow strip of land was all that separated the house from a deep ravine. “Here,” she said. “This’ll be the perfect final resting place for my baby.”
Rick understood why she chose this particular spot. It was within sight of the window Cleo used to perch herself behind and stare at the wildlife outside. He also felt the spot was too close to the edge of the ravine.
“You sure about this?”
“It’s perfect,” she said again.
“I’d be concerned about erosion.”
“Erosion? What do you mean? What erosion?”
“This land, right here.” Rick pointed. “See how it suddenly drops off like this? If it should erode any further, it might just unearth Cleo. I know you wouldn’t want that. See what I’m saying?”
Linda thought for a minute. “Okay, then let’s move her back, closer to the house, away from the hill.
Rick worried now that it might be too close to the house, too close to the foundation where, when Cleo finally decomposes, might she leech into the foundation? Maybe even the cellar itself. He wondered if there weren’t some town ordinance or law against the burying of animals too close to a dwelling, or against the burying of animals in general.
“Might be too close to the house,” he said.
“Rick, why are you fighting me on this?” she pleaded, teetering on the brink of full breakdown. Rick stepped toward her.
“Hey, hey, I’m sorry. I’m just trying to do what’s best for everyone here, especially Cleo. Look, tell you what, we’ll go back to your original spot, only I’ll back it up just a little a bit and make the…we’ll make it a little deeper, okay?
Linda nodded. She appeared visibly weak.
“Listen, why don’t you go in and get some rest and I’ll get started, okay?
Linda nodded again. “You’ll find a shovel inside the porch, to the left by the door,” she said before she turned and made her way back around to the front of the house. Rick watched her go, head slumped, shoulders twitching from sobs, before he went the other way, around to the back of the house and the porch.
There, Jen’s words, “It’s sick to have a dead cat rotting there on the porch” came back to haunt him. Given how cold it was inside the porch––today especially, he could see his breath––she’d be more refrigerated than rotting. He thought about taking a look. He wasn’t sure if he should, or even if he wanted to, but his curiosity got the better of him and he eased the blanket back.
Cleo looked pretty much the same as she had before: asleep, only her legs appeared shorter, or was it her torso had gotten fatter. He couldn’t be sure. Then he noticed something else: some of her teeth were showing, three tiny molars and a canine. He was certain they weren’t exposed like that before, and the effect gave her face a kind of sneer that he found unsettling. If her eye were to suddenly pop open he was certain he’d freak.
It was all becoming a bit too creepy for him, so he gently replaced the blanket and proceeded to look for the shovel, and found it where Linda said it was: to the left next to the door.
As he had imagined, the ground was frozen solid. He returned to the porch to look for something hard and sharp like a pick ax, but had to settle for an old crowbar instead. When striking the ground with the hooked end did no more than hurt his hands, he turned it around and tried jabbing it with the straight end. Eventually, and only by dropping to his knees and stabbing the earth repeatedly was he able to break the ground into pieces small enough to scoop with the shovel. In this manner he had a two-foot long by one-foot wide by three-foot deep hole ready in under four hours.
In gratitude, the women––all three were home that evening––cooked and fed him dinner, allowed him to shower in the downstairs bathroom, and even provided him a robe, one of Jen’s so it would fit him properly. Then, like a family, they watched TV together, old episodes of Law and Order SVU, Jen’s favorite. Rick knew he would be sleeping in Linda’s room that night.
But they would not be having sex. She still wasn’t ready for that, and surprisingly, neither was he. Too tired and too sore from having dug that hole outside, he fell right asleep with her spooned in his embrace.
The next morning he woke up early, donned his dirty clothes from the day before, got back in his car and drove home in order to shower, change into some fresh clothes and return in time for the ceremony. Linda had hoped all could attend, but Carol had to work a shift at the restaurant, and Jen promised her mom she’d stop by. Only Cynthia would be present. And Rick of course, who was given the task––the duty? the honor?––of delivering Cleo from the porch to her final resting place.
This time he did not peel back the blanket; he did not want to see that sneer again. Gingerly, he slipped his arms underneath the bundle and lifted, surprised at how little she weighed. She was also quite stiff, rigid, like a slab of wood wrapped in that blanket. Was she that frozen or had rigor set in? Was it both? Carefully, he edged sideways through the open porch door, and fearing a stumble might cause him to drop her, proceeded with cautious, painfully slow steps toward the site where the two women stood on the side of Cleo’s grave, opposite the mound of black earth that stood on the other. Both women had their hands clasped in front of them, in Linda’s a small, leather bound book.
At the foot of the grave, he knelt one knee at a time, hoping the blanket would stay wrapped––the last thing he needed now was for it to come undone and he would have to see that sneer again. That sneer he knew would haunt him for the rest of his life––and gently laid the bundle inside.
Relieved, he stood.
After a moment’s reflection, Linda opened the book she’d been holding––something she must have gotten at the bookstore where she worked, guessed Rick––to a passage she’d bookmarked and read aloud:
“She was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.”
She closed the book and after another moment of silence, looked up at Cynthia and said, “Thank you for being here Cyn.”
“Sure, no problem.” Cynthia bowed gently, nodded to Rick, then turned and walked hurriedly toward the front of the house and her car, which they heard pull away. Then, after another moment, Linda looked up at Rick with her eyes welling and said, “Would you mind taking care of this on your own? I’m sorry, I just can’t be here any longer.”
“Of course,” said Rick.
He waited until he was certain Linda was inside before he began refilling the hole.
That evening Linda surprised Rick by asking if they could go back to his apartment. She further surprised him when she suggested they take two cars so she could open up the bookstore in the morning, which meant she’d be spending the night. And that night, after they collaborated on a pasta dish and a mixed green salad, and shared a bottle of Bordeaux, they fell into bed and made love like they had when they first met. Like they had when things were good between them. Like they had prior to the man with the big hands and feet who had come between them. Neither he, nor Linda, would ever mention him again.
Things remained that way for nearly a month until Linda arrived at Rick’s apartment one Saturday, several hours later than promised.
“I’ve met someone,” she said after a long silence. “His name is Tom.”
“Tom,” he said.
She nodded.
“And?”
“And––”
He waited for her to finish.
“––We’ve been intimate.”
