He had his eyes closed, remembering another sun-dappled day. But to Sal it didn’t feel as though he were remembering it. It was more immediate than that. He was living that long-ago moment all over again.

Helen Raessler was nineteen and the light shone off her honey-colored hair. She was lying on her back on the sand in a dune at Ocean Beach. Even now he could feel the warm sand. They were sheltered by the contours of the land, by the surrounding sedge.

In spite of the difference in their backgrounds Sal knew that Helen loved him. She loved his big hands – already heavily calloused from work and from baseball – and his thick hair and powerful chest. He was twenty-five.

No, he is twenty-five.

He pulls away from their kiss so that he can see her perfect face. He traces the line of her jaw with his workman’s hand and she takes it and brings it down over her sweater to her breast. They’ve been seeing each other for a little more than a month, and the heat between them has scared him. He’s been afraid to push her, physically, in any way. They haven’t done even this yet.

They are kissing again and a sound escapes her throat. It is hunger. He can feel the swollen nipple under the fabric, of the sweater. He realizes that she has purposely worn no bra. A gull screeches high overhead, the waves pound off in the distance over the dunes, the sun is hot on him.

And then his shirt is open and her smooth hand is under it, pinching at his nipple, drawing her nails down his side, his belly. He pulls away again to see her.

‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘I’ll stop.’