They stood in the parking lot behind Bonnie’s apartment, saying good-bye. They were always saying good-bye. Most often they did so indoors, to avoid the extra scrutiny of Bonnie’s neighbors, even though the Dumplings, certainly, and Mr. Hopkins, most likely, knew what was what. It was just easier to avoid coming face to face with them and make them a part of the farewell scene. But on this evening of a mild, irresistible day in late June, the sky was lavender (from pollution, Eric suggested), the starlings were still chattering and whistling in the curbside trees, and even the traffic noise had a softened, indistinct sound, like an urban ocean. So they walked outside and stood for a time next to Eric’s car. Bonnie wore one of her loose, bright-colored cotton shifts, garments which she hoped did not announce, “I just had sex and I’m not wearing anything underneath,” but probably did. Eric wore the clothes he’d put on at home that morning, and now, between work and Bonnie’s, had climbed out of and back into twice.
