He awoke to kitchen sounds. When he opened his eyes she walked into the bedroom, wearing only his
white dress shirt, playmate fashion, collar up, buttons halfway open, tails down to her thighs.
You look great, he said. She came over for a snuggle, sitting on the edge of the bed. Can I wear
it home? It reminds me of you. He snuffled his head against her breasts and inhaled. Eau Sauvage?
She laughed and pulled away. That too, she said. And the guy thing. The Ty thing. He watched her
dress. When he finally got up, after she’d gone, after a feint or two to get her back under the
covers, there was a pot of coffee, still softly steaming, in the machine.
By December, the infatuation had cooled and they had gone their separate ways. They crossed paths
one weekend night at a fundraising auction. They chatted briefly. He thought that she smelled
faintly of Eau Sauvage. Do you still have my shirt? he said. The look on her face he would never forget.