But she is not owned by anyone; what he gets, she gives gladly. Except, of course, she had not meant to give love. It was meant to be amusement and now it is love, catastrophic as quicksand. She loves him, so much so that even the shirt he wears — a lime polo sporting the image of a cavorting snake-limbed bottle, with the words Every Day is a Beer Barn Day! printed across the shoulders — is not repulsive to her. She can never quite believe the sight of him, his height, his smell, his groomed darkness, here in her hall — yet she feels she was born to see him. They meet at the door, where the carpet is protected by a loop-pile mat. Glancing down she notes that the skirting-board paint has been chipped. So this is not Paris or a steamy train station; nonetheless, it is wonderful. His presence makes it wonderful. She steps back, her hands enclosing his. She can’t stop smiling in these first minutes, she’s so buoyed and reassured. “We’ve got the afternoon to ourselves. Your sister is babysitting David.
