It’s the woman sitting by the large mirror who knows that the man sitting next to her is struggling to keep his hands on the table. The things you say. I just want to hold you. Had I ever spoken to her this way? With her there were no balconies to scale, no struggle to win her over, no dashing histrionics, no rivals, no door to ram down or to bolt shut Fragonard-style once I’d stepped into her bedroom that first time after we’d played tennis. The door was always open, and everything had come so naturally, so easily, just as it had in midsleep the other night. We crossed the bridge and didn’t
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