Claire drove the rented car.  Jack navigated.  The Mini had a stick shift.  Jack slid his left hand between her thighs. Every time she changed gears or braked, he squeezed.  She parked near the market in Calvados and they went to buy food and wine.  Choosing onions, Claire realized she remembered nothing about the drive from Paris except how his hand had felt.

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             They had been kissing for an hour, maybe more, moving around the house from one room to the next, trying to unpack, find things.  Standing in the kitchen, sitting on the couch, rolling off onto the rug, leaning against the tall footboard in one bedroom.  Stopping for a moment, trying to talk, unable to look away.  The air around them vibrated; the tiny house pulsed.

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             Her fingers shake on the buttons, the buckle.  He tries to help her.  She pushes his hand away.  He is standing and tightens his thighs to stop the trembling.  As the zipper snicks, she rolls her hot forehead on his belly. And moans.

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             Claire is dreaming.  The baby nurse is saying, “Nose to nipple. See?  Her mouth will open and it just falls in perfectly.  See?  That’s a smart baby.”

            A ping of pain, then a fullness, a gathering.  Her eyes almost open.  His head is above her left breast.  She rolls to her side to make it easier for him, combs her fingers into his hair.

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             There is a mirror in the dark bedroom, full length, propped against a wall.  A trapezoid of silver in its black rectangle plays a black-and-white movie Claire can barely see:  a slice of Jack’s upright torso, one hand holds the crux of her off the mattress, the other’s thumb … one heel is on his shoulder.  His back arches, relaxes, arches, relaxes, in exquisite rhythm, that perfect pace between slow and slightly faster.  She watches him drive her off the cliff.

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             Claire crawls toward the pillows.  Their mouths slide together.  "See?"  she says, "That's what we taste like."      

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             It’s just dawn and Claire is sleeping.  She’s a noisy sleeper, sounds like a loud purr or a low growl; sometimes she talks, “Not the coffee, just toast.”  She dreams; her eyelids flicker.  She lies on her side.  Jack has been watching her face, gets up, goes around and climbs back in bed behind her, tucks himself into her S.  Claire pats his hand, doesn’t wake.   Jack kisses her shoulder.  His eyes close.  It’s Saturday.

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