We spent our afternoons lounging around under the porch, playing with the buttons on the radio or talking about unimportant things that is, when we weren’t fucking or preparing a few of the complicated dishes we’d picked out of the cookbook the night before. I’d pushed the chaise longue into the shade, she’d spread her mat out in the sunshine. Whenever anybody came by I’d toss her a towel, taking it back once the asshole had gone, then return to my chaise longue to look at her. I noted how all I had to do was lay my eyes on her for a little over ten seconds to completely clear my mind. It was a trick that came in handy.

One morning she jumped on the scale and let out a scream.

“Oh shit, I don’t believe it!”

“Betty, what is it?”

“Jesus Christ, I’ve gained another two pounds. I just knew it…!”

“Don’t worry about it. Believe me, it doesn’t show.”

She didn’t answer, and I forgot the whole incident. Then at lunch I found myself with a tomato cut in half on my plate-just a tomato, nothing else. I didn’t say anything, though-just dug right in as if there was nothing at all unusual. I left the table feeling fit, not weighted down by a bunch of calories, and we took a roll in the sheets-one of our best sessions. Outside the sun was vibrating, crashing down on the crickets.

I got up later and went straight to the icebox. Once in a while life hands you moments of absolute perfection, wraps you up in stardust. I was under the impression that my ears were whistling, as if I’d attained a higher level of consciousness. I gave the eggs a big smile. I grabbed three and scrambled them in a bowl.

“What are you doing?” Betty asked.

I started looking for the flour.

“I never told you, but the only time in my life that I really made money was selling crépes. I set up this little stand by the seaside and the folks stood in line in the glaring sun with their money in their hands. Yeah, every last one of them. I made the most fabulous crépes within twenty-five miles and they knew it. I’m going to show you I’m not joking…”