TWENTY-TWO.

    I prefer men who make errors, who are vague about their attire and the part in their hair. Jonathon is slender and careless, the stuble on his jaw uneven, the knuckles of his hands marked by light scars. His recklessness pleases me.

    I follow him along the tiki torch lighted path to the poolhouse. His footprints shimmer on the concrete. The room inside is narrow, cool and dry, full of books with a bed squeezed in. "This is cozy."

    "It's temporary. I do feel sort of like I'm playing runaway, operating a secret club in the backyard," Jonathon says.

    "What's it called?"

    "Hmmm?"

    "This, your secret club. What's the password?"

    "You ask too many questions."

    "You're not telling me enough," I say. He sits down on the bed, pushing back piles of books scattered on the sheets with one broad, narrow hand. "I feel a little awkward."

    "Uncomfortable?" Jonathon says.

    "No, not that... I just don't know what to do with myself."

    "Sit down," he says. I do. The sheets on the bed are cold.

    "Where do I fit in?" I ask.

    "Here." He leans in towards me, so that I can see speckles in his iris, the neat curvature of his brow. I hesitate, caught for a moment in the beauty in his eyes. "Don't let me disappear." I wanted to kiss him and cry. All of this was so nice that I didn't want to leave. I didn't leave. His arms reached around me, and I met him with movements of my own.

    Instinct took over and left me functioning on autopilot.

    Each movement lodged itself in my memory like a playing card in a pack. I couldn't regret the luscious feelings that swept over me. I wouldn't want to, having known time. We fell into peaceful sleep though the yellowed curtains, outlined with sun.