“Is that right.”

“You know what he said once?”

“No.”

“He said, ‘Doing it is like Christmas: after all the presents are open, you can’t remember what the fuss was all about.’” And she laughed, but it got caught in her throat.

“What are you depressed for?”

“I’m not depressed. Don’t read anything into anything, Burt.”

Burt is the name I was using here. I thought it sounded like a good swinging singles name.

“My husband used to get sad, sometimes, after we did it.”

Him again. She talked about him all the time, her ex. About what a son of a bitch he was, mostly. He was an English professor at some eastern university, with rich parents who underwrote him, He (or rather they) paid for Nancy’s apartment here in Florida. There was a kid, too, a daughter I think, living with Nancy’s parents in Michigan.

“You know what he used to say?” she asked.

“Something about Christmas?”

“No. He used to say that in France coming is called the little death.”

“That’s a little over my head, Nancy.”

“Well, he was an intellectual. The lousy prick. But I think what it means is when you come, it’s like dying for a second, you’re going out of this life into some place different. You’re not thinking about money or your problems or anything. All you can think of is coming. And you aren’t thinking about that, either. You’re just coming.”

Down by the pool, the girl I’d come here to watch was sitting along the edge, kicking at the water, while her blond boyfriend tried to kid her out of her mood.

Nancy’s hand was on my shoulder. I looked at her and she was lifting her mouth up to me, which meant I was supposed to kiss her, and I did. I put my hand between her legs and nudged her with a finger.

“Bang,” I said.

She took my arm and pulled me into the bedroom.