I shake through the last of it. I keep my eyes on her eyes the whole time. She does not look away. She does not move from the chair. Her pulse in her throat is still beating. Her jaw is still tight.
When I come down, I put my hand flat on my stomach. My chest rises and falls. My hair is stuck to my temple. I am wet all down the inside of my thighs.
Her hands are still on the arms of the chair.
"Thank you," she says.
I laugh. Small. Hoarse.
"Thankme."
"Yes. Thank you."
"For what?”
"For letting me see you like that."
I look at her.
"You're welcome."
She stays in the chair.
I pull the quilt up a little, not all the way, enough to cover my hip. I do not break the look yet.
"You came back early," I say.
"I did."
"Small fire?”
"Small fire."
"All right."
"I couldn't stop thinking," she says, "about you in this bed. About how beautiful you looked this morning.”
I close my eyes a second.
"I was thinking about you in that chair watching me,” I say.
"I know."
"How."
"Because I came up the porch and I could hear you."
I feel my face go warm. I don't mind it going warm.
"All right," I say.
"I stood on the porch a minute."
"And then you came in."
"And then I came in."
"Okay."
