He had wanted to call out to her, to tell her to come back to the bedroom and sit on the side of the bed so he could look at her, so he could touch her hand once more, or stroke her hair, which had been soft and fragrant and womanly. It was then that he realized that he did not know her name. He realized too that he was sleeping in another man’s bed, and that the woman singing in the other room was another man’s wife. What ever thoughts he was having of her were thoughts he had no right thinking. But still, he lingered for a moment more before rising and dressing. “Good morning, Mr. Dollar,” she said brightly as he entered the kitchen; the smell of coffee and frying ham, along with the sound of her singing, had drawn him to find her there. “Ma’am,” he said, now embarrassed that he could not call her by name. “Seems like we ought to be past, ma’am,”
