TERESE Collins was waiting for me in the lobby.

She hugged me but not too hard. Her body leaned against mine for support, but again not that much, not a total collapse or anything. We were both reserved in our first greeting in eight years. Still, as we held each other, I closed my eyes and thought I could smell the cocoa butter.

My mind flashed to the Caribbean island, but mostly it flashed-let's be honest here-to the thing that truly defined us: the soul-piercing sex. That desperate clawing and shredding that makes you understand, in a totally non-sadomasochistic way, how pain-emotional pain-and pleasure not only intermingle but amplify each other. Neither of us had an interest in words or feelings or false comforts or hand-holding or even, well, reserved hugs-as if all that stuff were too tender, as if a gentle caress might pop this fragile bubble that temporarily protected us both.

Terese pulled back. She was still knee-knockingly beautiful. There had been aging, but on some women-maybe most women in this era of too much facial tucking-a little aging works.

"So what's wrong?" I asked.

"That's your opening line after all these years?"

I shrugged.

"I opened with 'Come to Paris,' " Terese said.

"I'm working on dialing back the charm," I said, "at least until I know what's wrong."

"You must be exhausted."