"Max."
"Yes."
"That was for me too. I wanted it so much. I got so much pleasure out of doing that for you.”
She is quiet a count.
"I know," she says.
"I have not done that for a person I love."
"I know."
"Max."
"Yes."
"I love you."
The cabin is very quiet.
The fire in the front room is low. The rain has not come back. The wind has not come up. The woman who pulled me out of a fire is under me.
She does not answer for a count.
Then she puts her hand on the back of my neck and she pulls my mouth up to hers, and she kisses me once, soft.
"Evangeline."
"Yes."
"I have known I love you since the first time I saw you. I love you.”
I close my eyes.
I close my eyes against the side of her neck and I lie on her chest with the strap warm and wet between us, and I lie still on her, and she puts her hand on the back of my head, and she keeps it there.
I do not move.
I close my eyes and I sleep.
19
MAX
The alarm is at five.
I am already awake. I have been awake since four-forty, lying on my side with my hand flat on the small of her back, and I am counting her breath in fours and not moving. The cabin is warm. The fire in the front room burned itself out at some point in the night and the air has cooled at the edge of the quilt, but under the quilt it is warm, and her skin against mine is warm, and I do not want to put my feet on the boards.
I put my feet on the boards.
I get out from under the quilt without waking her. She makes a small sound at the back of her throat and turns her face into the pillow. I kiss her hair. I look at her in the grey light at the edge of the curtain and I make myself stand. Evangeline. God, she takes my breath away.
Five o'clock.
I am at the kitchen counter at five-oh-four with the kettle on, and the brass key is on the counter, and I look at it without picking it up. I drink the coffee black. I eat half a piece of bread standing at the sink. I rinse the cup.
I write her a note on the back of the receipt from the gas station Tuesday.
