Odd, how time passes.

Only two nights ago, her Portuguese lover had read to her on the couch: how the rain is pouring down on them, how it trickles between their breasts, how it lingers and disappears into the darkness of the pubis, how it finally drenches and flows over the thighs. She had imagined herself standing with those three graces beneath the falling rain: the girl with the dark glasses, the wife of the first blind man, the doctor’s wife. The tea house woman’s eyes welled. Her throat constricted. The sky has clouded over, the doctor’s wife assured. Not even God could see them. Only I can see you. There her Portuguese lover stopped, setting down the book and pulling her feet onto his lap, massaging, kneading, thumbs pressed into her soles. She was wearing black silk stockings with black seams up the backs of her legs—Cuban heel, thigh high, lace top. What’s on your mind, he wanted to know. I have more to offer than this, she thought, right? Gifts more meaningful than hooker stockings and stilted conversation over Christmas Eve stew? I want to tell you something, so listen, she should have said, but what came out instead was, Let me help you with the dishes before we go to bed.