1. The hotel room was elegant. He arrived after her, shedding coat, tie and shoes. She directed him to a sofa covered in a fussy chintz, and when he was seated, she straddled his lap. There, looking into his eyes, she fed him blueberry pie and vanilla ice cream. She fed each forkful carefully and slowly, and he ate with his eyes closed. He savored the warm, juicy pie morsels and cold ice cream as if each were a kiss, although he knew it was all the dessert she’d ever give him.
2. They sat beside each other until dusk, enjoying the quiet unlit room. They talked about the 40 years that had passed since they’d last seen each other, just children, really. He had brought photos of his son and daughter who were older than they had been when first love immersed them. He was elated when he could make her laugh, a fabulous laugh, the kind you would recognize in a crowded theater or café despite all other sounds. She could see the boy in the man’s face, and she longed to run her fingers over his features, but did not. Being in the same room after all these years was miracle enough.
3. On the train home, he sat in his usual reserved car with his usual evening paper. He smiled to himself as he replayed a devious joke she’d told him about a debate between a rabbi and a pope. He closed his eyes and tasted faint vanilla. He would write to her next week, or the week after. There was no rush. She was as much a part of him as his bones, and he was in her marrow.