“Teddy, is that you?” she murmured. There was no answer, so she knew she was dreaming. But perhaps he heard her anyway. She tried again. “Teddy, do you forgive me?” A whisper of wind seemed to blow over her, like a summer evening’s breeze off the Mississippi. She had thrown off the bedclothes, as she had that night on the river, because it was too hot to sleep under them. And because the film all over her body from perspiration left by lovemaking made their slight weight intolerable. The breeze cooled her gently. She could sense the weight of Teddy’s body in the bed beside her, but she did not turn to look at him. Had it been all right that time? Had he been pleased with her? She almost thought she had enjoyed it, too. Perhaps it did only take time, time to learn to read his moods, to make the connections between the anticipation and the act itself. She thought of how he had kissed her that night after dinner, and the flesh on her arms tingled in remembrance; she could feel the tips of her breasts tense imagining his hands gently cupping them, his tongue teasing the smooth, taut flesh.
