The following Sunday, the lake was socked in with fog. Libby set up two poles, wrote in her journal, caught one fish. Someone called her name and Lewis pulled out of the fog like creation itself. Her first reaction was, How dare he? Her second, pleased surprise. Or maybe the two thoughts were simultaneous: How dare he cause her pleased surprise? "This is the second week I've come looking for you." Lewis squatted by her chair. "This is a cool thing to do. You're right -- it is like going to church, only better.

" He touched the cane pole. "Hey, want to go to Miserable Yolanda's for breakfast?" "Can you go there?" she said. "Why not?" "Isn't it a bar?" "What, you think I'm going to drink?" "No, no." She stammered stupidly. Alcoholism etiquette, she sensed, was a minefield for the uninitiated. He punched her arm lightly. "I'll be safe with you. You won't let me partake, right?" His dark eyes danced with what? Derision? "Sorry," she said to him.

"It's none of my business." When they got back to town, he was too hot and wanted to change out of his sweater. "Care to see my room?" She wasn't crazy about ducking into the Mills Hotel with a man in clear view of Main Street yet she'd always wondered about the fine white clapboard building. The lobby, though dingy, was clean and had an enormous hearth built of large, white, round river rocks. Lewis' room, at the top of creaky wooden stairs, barely had space for a bed and a bureau. Thumbtacked to the wall was a t-shirt silkscreened with a caricature of Wallace Stevens. A postcard of a blue jar was tacked upside-down above the t-shirt's neck. "It's a joke," Lewis said.

"Wallace Stevens wrote a poem about a blue jar. Here, I'll read it to you." Libby sat down on the bed since there was no place else to sit, unless she wanted to roost on a big clump of laundry in the room's only chair. She didn't understand the poem. The room was hot, the radiator hissed. Lewis moved on to another poem, with even more dizzying words. "The Idea of Order at Key West." At least she didn't have to think of anything to say.

Then, he put the book down on the foot of the bed -- she assumed he was going to rummage in the laundry chair for a shirt -- but without a word, he placed his hands on her shoulders. He came in close; it was a stare-down, an ophthalmic assault. Her mind sped. He couldn't kiss her when she was all fishy like this. But he did. He was kissing her neck and jaw, licking his way back to her lips. In no time he was undressing her, a series of insistent tugs. She didn't mind.

In fact she liked this focussed, no-nonsense approach. This was what she thought would happen, although maybe not so quickly, and she couldn't have predicted that he'd have such authority. She was naked and he was still in that old wool sweater and jeans. He looked her straight in the eye. Scary, but fun. Really fun. Sprawled across the bed, he pushed his pants down, rolled away from her to put on a condom and, re-establishing eye-contact, promptly guided himself inside her. His eyes flickered.

The musty sweater was itchy, abrasive, like his beard. She didn't even like beards, thought them slovenly. The whole grungy room was slovenly. She came fast and hard. Like I'm the man, she thought. Premature. He smiled and, without pulling out of her, took off his sweater. His chest was hairless, the ribs pronounced.

His olive skin was granular, like muscled sand. "Do you want to talk about this?" he asked, still inside her. "Not now!" "We're doin' it," he said. "Shouldn't we talk about it?" "God, Lewis." She bundled his butt in her hands and, to shut him up, pushed him into her. "No?" Laughing.