He always wanted to be one of those people, the kind that can tell a sycamore from a birch, a lily from an orchid, all without having to google it. As he finger-and-thumbs her beige blouse, he knows it isn't satin, but what the hell is it? She kisses him again, this time longer than the greeting. He thinks the name of the material starts with an R. It’s a synthetic. She ruffles the back of his hair, glides down his neck before latching to his shoulders. Of course, he’s not certain it’s a synthetic and it may start with an M. No. It’s R. R-A. Her day was good, she says. Ian was down, and Nicole was happy.  It’s the kind of fabric you hand wash in cold water. He wants to know what it’s called because everything about this moment, every loose strand of hair, the brand of her black leather boots, each elation at the corner of the mouth, and each attempt to cover up elation, must be committed to memory.

Just a few minutes earlier, she knocked a soft cadence--a cadence timeless and familiar and forever nameless, yet a cadence all her own. Not all that different from her knock nearly three years ago. She was timid then, wearing a loose, primarily red plaid shirt and black tights. Slow to drink the wine on the table. Slow to lay in the bed.

Now she takes off her blouse without pause. She wears a supportless lace bra, what he thinks of as lace, anyway. He’s not sure if that’s right. “I don’t have ***** anymore,” she says. “When you don’t have ***** you can wear these.” These? Do these have a certain name? She kisses him hard, pressing her left leg against his center. Her hair is much longer. He burrows in it. He wishes he knew the fragrance of her shampoo. It’s not coconut. Coconut he recognizes. This is subtle, like vanilla, but it’s not vanilla. He knows vanilla, too.

Along her abdomen, his fingers fall into new grooves. Three years ago, she didn't have a gut. Now she’s got even less of one. She undoes the button on his pants. He blinks. He’s pressing her against the wall. He blinks. He yanks her ******* down, presses his face into her. He blinks. She’s straddling him on the couch, her hair falling around them both. In her eyes is a look he wants to be able to describe--to pause the transfer of energy between their bodies and relate to her. But what would he say? At first, he sees eternity, but what good is that if she doesn’t believe in eternity. Then he sees their past. She’s playing a piano at her parents’. He’s just hitting keys beside her, but she continues to play, both ignoring and not ignoring him. But that’s not exactly it.

She rests her palms on the recliner. They go from behind. It’s December. It’s 2011. It’s twenty degrees. They’re half-undressed beside his parent’s out-of-sight frozen pond. Desire off the rails, going over the hill. He takes in her body. His breath is visible. Their rhythms match.

“Don’t stop,” she says. “Don’t stop.” She clenches a fistful of the recliner as soundless noise ricochets off the corners of her brain then comes together, a coagulation of tension and pain and what may or may not be love. The noise reaches its crescendo. The line between present and past disappears. What’s happening is not wholly reality, not wholly fantasy. It’s like making--it’s like ******* a ghost--she thinks. One, two tremors echo through her body.

He’s bigger, softer. He doesn't talk so much. He just looks at her like he did before. She turns around. It’s the way he looked at her when they began years ago. It’s naive. It’s hopeful. It’s discovering a million dollars free of guilt or consequence. Is it possible to fake something like that?

“Relax,” she says, meaning sit down and let her do her thing. At even the slightest touch, his body twitches. His love sounds--those yelps--are new. He grabs the pillow and covers his face. She kisses the inside of his thigh. As she did the night after he drug her into the freezing Pacific. She felt like such a part of the world. That sounds stupid, but she can’t think of a better way to say it.

He pulls her onto the couch, trying to take control. “Relax.” She gets on top. She rolls her body against his. She kisses his neck. His ear. His chest. Playfully she bites him. His eyes are wet. She’s afraid she’s hurt him, but their body--or bodies, rather, still move.

“God,” he says.

“What?”

“Just this.”

She laces her fingers underneath his neck and, leaning down next to his ear, asks, “What about this?”

What he says next sounds a lot like I love you. She wants to ask what he said. But if she heard right, what then? What is she required to say? So she doesn't ask. She rests upon his chest. He smells like he did the first night she stayed over, like mandarin and cardamom and the sour smell of the afterward. She plants her lips on his chest, conveying what she doesn't want to say out loud.

All kisses are calibrated. That’s the line. He doesn't remember what book it’s from, nor the author. Saunders or Russo, he thinks, maybe Shteyngart. I love you just rattled out of him. He didn't mean to. He means it--but he didn't mean to. Instead of saying anything, she kisses his chest for a long time. He can feel the depth, the range of her affection, but not just affection, no it’s more than that. It’s womanly love. It’s tender love. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”