I expected no one. The door buzzer startled me. No one knew I was here, except the women, and the friend who’d lent me the apartment. It had to be a friend of my friend’s, or a Jehovah’s Witness, or someone come to do me harm.

I peered through the crack of the door. A woman stood next to a rolling duffel bag, with a large, overstuffed tote across her shoulder. She seemed harmless, so I opened it wide, and was eye to eye with a silver-haired, caramel brown woman, I couldn’t say whether by ancestry or time in the sun, a solid figure in a worn denim jacket, black straight leg jeans, and boots made of some animal’s skin.

“Is Elise here?”

“Sorry, no. I’m staying at her place while she’s gone. I’m Warren.”

The woman’s shoulders sank.

“Well, this is awkward. I sent her a message two months ago that I would be here today.”

“Oh,” I rubbed my chin. “Did you hear back?”

“Well, no,” the woman shifted. “I had my phone stolen and didn’t remember my email password. Then I needed two-step authentication?” 

Her expression suggested she realized how this was sounding.

“Elise is my aunt. I told her I was coming home.”

I scanned the woman. She looked nothing like Elise, although I loosely recalled mention of a niece she hadn’t seen in years. 

“Well, come in and have some tea, or coffee,” I hesitated, “or something stronger perhaps?” She smelled of citrus mixed with exertion as she passed, and little beads of sweat crossed her temples. I grabbed the handle of the duffle to be gallant and to assess its contents. “I can ring up Elise and we can sort all this out.”

She stopped at the entrance to remove her boots. “You’re British?”

“How did you know? Still haven’t lost my accent? Moved to the States in my 20s.” I followed her in and set the duffle in a corner. “What gave me away?”

“Ring up, sort out.”

“You were in the UK?”

“Among other places,” she said as she dropped her tote in one of the large round armchairs and plopped into the matching chair beside it. “Oh, I’m Safir.” 

An ethnic first name, a possible clue to her café complexion and the thickness of her hair. I reached to shake her outstretched hand. It was soft, slender, with a firm handshake, a good grip.

“Well, Safir, coffee, tea, whisky?”

“Tequila, if you have it.”

“Odd you should ask, I just stocked up at Trader Joe’s,” I paused. “Have you been travelling long outside the States? Perhaps you don’t know the place. 

“I know it,” she replied.

Her smile was difficult to interpret, or was it a smirk? “Anyway, I fancy their tequila collection.” I turned and headed to the kitchen, remembered to grab my phone.

I busied myself finding glasses. Found the perfect tray, a bamboo beauty tucked away in a corner on the Mexican tile counter. My plan to settle in and enjoy the view was dissolving. Watching the sunset through the floor to ceiling windows designed for that purpose was meant to soften the sting of my situation while I tried to make sense of things about my broken relationship. My life partners, the women, had ended it. Thrust me back into the “civilized” world of monogamy, with rules I now rejected. 

“Need help?” Safir called from the living room.

“No, I’m good.”

Safir’s grey eyes rimmed by dark lashes against that caramel skin and silver hair was quite something. She was my first encounter outside the safe bubble I had created with my lovers. Was Safir a test? Had I really evolved? Or would I fall right back into using sex to numb my feelings?

Planning a gourmet retreat, I’d stopped at Trader Joe’s on Friday to pick up the essentials. We had always shopped on Sundays, the only day of the week we could all do it together. One of us pushed the cart, one read the ingredients on every label, and the other checked items off the list while settling arguments between us. The things we never bought because one of the women detested it had filled my basket, popping the cork on my freedom, creating my own rituals and traditions. I was conscious that I’d just thought about Abigail and Amanda as a unit, a pair. Had I always done that? Had that contributed to our demise?

Assembling the proper components for tequila shots gave me a moment to grieve the things lost. Being greeted with a glass of wine and a comforting chat when I came home from doing battle in the world. The three of us cooking dinner with herbs and salad greens from the garden we tended on weekends. Our luxurious, scented baths in the enormous bathtub we’d splurged on two Christmases ago, when we still believed we were forever. Now I would be alone in the garden or the tub, or with my wine, in the whatever place I chose next. I had lived by myself before. It was an emptier time. When I’d ached for the intimacy I didn’t feel when a woman lay beside me in bed. The women changed all that. Took me deeper than I’d ever imagined.

Everything ready on the bamboo tray, I dialed Elise. We spoke in hushed tones as I peeked around the cornor to see if Safir heard us. When I hung up, I went back to the living room and sat the tray with two shot glasses and a bottle of tequila on the stylishly narrow coffee table.

Safir had made herself comfortable on the long sofa drowned in pillows. Her body stretched across it; socks removed to reveal toenails painted lavender. Her jacket lay abandoned on the chair with her tote. Her bright blue “Free Nicaragua” tee shirt stretched the national flag across her breasts. That’s quite a rack on her; the old me would have said something like that out loud, to my mates. That was before meeting the women and our Pod. Now, I sat in the cozy chair across from her in simple appreciation. Safir noted my increased scrutiny with an arch of an eyebrow as she sat up and reached for the bottle.

“I see you’re joining me, Warren.” 

She popped the corked bottle with enthusiasm and grabbed one of the sliced lime wedges arranged on a plate beside a small bowl of artisanal salt. With the wedge between her teeth, she drew its juices with her full lips, as she poured two neat shots, then licked the spot between her thumb and index finger to sprinkle salt. 

“To life,” she toasted, as she tossed back the white liquid, followed by a lick of salt, then a suck of lime. She finished with a sigh of satisfaction.

I did the same and set my empty glass on the table, never taking my eyes off the peculiar creature refilling our glasses.

“Did you talk to Elise?” she asked as she poured more shots.

“Yes,” I responded.

“And?”

“She said watch out for that one, she’s trouble.”

Safir looked me dead in the eyes as she handed me the second shot. 

“You can’t have just one, Warren—it’s an odd number—bad luck.”

We held up our glasses. 

“Let’s do it old school,” she said as she leaned across the table to encircle her hand around mine. Her dark honey-colored fingers brushed against my brown hand and the image triggered something, that color connected us in a way. Undoubtedly, her name and ambiguous ethnic heritage had made Safir an outsider here in the States. Perhaps this had contributed to Elise’s perception, a white woman, that her niece was troubled. I knew what it felt like to be other on two continents: a black boy in London and a Black man in the U.S. Maybe that connected us, Safir and me. We untangled ourselves after we finished the second shot.

“And?” she added.

“Well, she’s gone until the end of the month,” I paused for effect., “And, she said you are family and apologized for the inconvenience. You can stay.”

“Way to go, Elise!” Safir relaxed into the plush sofa pillows. “You’re stuck with me.”

With a British smile, I replied, “I don’t feel stuck at all.” 

In fact, Elise had offered to pay for a hotel for her niece.

Safir eyed me, head tilted, eyebrows raised, seeming to assess the situation. Was it suspicion or interest? I barely knew the woman, and she’d offered little information. I clasped my fingers across my stomach, stretched my legs in front of me and considered what to do.

“Well, Warren, I come in peace.”

She seemed to have made the best of it, poured another shot, then held the rim of the bottle over my glass and glanced at me. I shook my head no. She set down the bottle and finished her third shot with as much enthusiasm as the first.

“So, you’re welcome to the sofa bed in the office. Elise keeps sheets and towels in the wardrobe in the hallway. Extra blankets are in there too.”

“Thanks,” Safir responded, as she glanced around the place. “Elise has done well for herself.”

“When’s the last time you saw your aunt?”

“Grad school graduation.”

“Grad school?”

“What, you don’t see me as the type?”

“No, well,” I sighed. “So, let me be honest.”

“Sure,” Safir’s tone was skeptical.

“Well, so… why I responded that way,” I stopped. “How old are you?”

“Age is a number, Warren, people use to put you in a box.”

This made me, laugh. “You’re right, sorry. Okay, how you’re dressed, the duffle, not a suitcase, suggested budget traveler.”

“Adventure traveler,” Safir countered.

“Okay, fair enough. Well, your aunt suggested you had money troubles and hadn’t held down a steady job in over five years, and that perhaps you’d had a breakdown.”

“Yeah, I had a breakdown.” Safir’s laugh was hearty. 

“If a breakdown is recognizing that it was all bullshit, the life they’d planned out for me.” 

Safir reached for the bottle again, lifted her head and added, “I never accepted a dime from my family, nothing from Elise, so add that to your judgment calculator.” 

She downed her fourth drink and leaned back on the pillows.

“The money trouble Elise refers to is me liquidating my own savings and instead of buying cars and a house, I bought a life.”

She filled her shot glass again and pointed the bottle toward my empty glass. 

No, I signaled. “I’d rather smoke a joint. Is that okay?”

“Okay! Count me in!” Her eyes lit up as she put the bottle back in its place. “I’ll save this for later.”

I stepped into the bedroom to retrieve my wooden box, hand-carved by a friend, the inside aged with resin. Properly armed, I exited the bedroom and found Safir flipping through a fashion magazine like it was in a foreign language and even the pictures made no sense. She straightened up at my return, like an expectant child waiting for ice cream. Tossed the magazine back on its pile. “Nothing but ads.”

I handed her the joint and the lighter, found an ash tray and took my seat.

“Okay,” I began. “Let’s start fresh. Tell me what ever bits of your story you’d like to share, perhaps about your family, how are you related to Elise?”

Safir passed the joint to me and flung her arms across the back of the sofa, savoring her last inhale, eyes closed, head back in contemplation.

“You’re wondering what I am?”

“No, no, no, I’m….,” I halted. “Okay, yes, yes I am.”

“The pieces don’t fit.”

“Yes, exactly,” I admitted.

“That’s intentional.”

“Hmm,” I considered this.

“Well,” she began with closed eyes, “I’m live and let live Warren. Been to 32 countries and counting. Can make a bad ass meal from whatever’s in any pantry. I’ve made gourmet spreads with hostel left behinds from Bangkok to Santiago.”

“That skill will come in handy after we finish this joint and have the munchies.” I winked at her.

Her laugh doubled me over. It was infectious. There was a giddiness to it, an uncontrollable element. I couldn’t say if it was the tequila or the Purple Kush.

“How do you know Elise, Warren?”

That straightened me up. How could I answer without outing Elise? 

“You see….,” I hesitated.

Elise would want me to be honest. Passionate about the movement and its world changing possibilities, she insisted that being open and honest about our relationships was a part of the resistance, the only way to change minds about our mistrusted poly lifestyle.

“Elise is one of my lovers, myself, my life… my partners, we are part of a polyamorist community. We call it a Pod.”

“Oh,” was all she said.

The room became quiet, and I settled into my high while we continued to observe each other. This one had murky boundaries. She didn’t seem dodgy, yet she was bloody hard to figure out.

Safir reached toward her tote, dragged it from the chair to the floor with a thud, and rummaged through its disorganized interior. Scarves, books, shoes pushed aside until she plucked a device from the jumble inside the bag and thrust it at me.

“I’m dying to listen to some sounds I put on my new phone. Elise has something state-of-the art, right?” She thrust the device at me.

Why did she refuse to call Elise “aunt?” Show her some respect. After I connected her iPhone, with a click of the remote the room filled with pulsating Senegalese rap, the lyrics sexier in French. The throbbing beats and rhythmic words were a treat now that I was seriously buzzed. Standing by the floor to ceiling window, I tried to soak up the last bit of sunset. My senses loosened by the weed and tequila, I hoped to get back to the celebration of my new life, without the women. Safir would only be a rebound thing, a temporary salve for my wounds.

Surrendering to the music, I let my hips and arms sway, oblivious to Safir, as the beat shifted with the next song, an Afro-Caribbean beat.

“Do you work out, Warren?” 

Safir’s question made me suddenly conscious of my clingy Vuori Ponto sweatpants and the stretch cotton shirt I’d put on for the relaxing evening that had vanished.

“Yoga,” I replied, and turned to find Safir contemplating me the way I had contemplated her. I executed a spin and kept dancing. She glared at me in her reflection in the window. At the end of the song, I salsa’d in her direction and plopped into my chair. 

“Did I interrupt your dancing?”

“Your Aunt Elise,” I emphasized the “aunt,” “invited me to stay here so that I could be alone to do whatever I fucking wanted.” I made my tone as friendly as possible. “That won’t change.”

I held Safir’s gaze, did not allow her to deflect or avoid. Her eyes met mine without apology. No timid deer, this one.

“That is strangely comforting, Warren. You do you, I do me, as long as me doesn’t shit all over you.”

Well, that creased me up. “Brilliant.”

The moment of levity allowed us to relax. We were silent and let the music speak to us; to entertain me with its newness. 

Perhaps Safir was wonderful and interesting, or made of the things I wished to leave behind. I stroked my temple in need of soothing, to disengage for a while, allow my thoughts to wander, to consider nothing. Gratitude, gratitude, I chanted silently.

“Sorry to disturb, but do you have anything to eat?”

I didn’t bother to hide my annoyance.

“You are welcome to whatever bits ‘n bobs are in the fridge and pantry.” 

Safir looked disappointed as she lifted herself from her resting place to go inspect the options.

“Not much of a host,” she grumbled.

“You, love, are not my guest.”

“Fine,” Safir grunted.

The refrigerator door opened and closed, followed by sounds of chopping on the wooden cutting board. I had planned a light dinner and a book, things that hadn’t happened as often as I would have liked in our more hectic household, with three people and so many things to manage. I had come here to be alone and was now forced to fit in this strange abrupt woman cooking in my kitchen. Well, to be fair, it was Elise’s kitchen, and to be fairer Elise was her aunt.

I relaxed into the chair to release my thoughts, get centered. My mind wandered through the glorious times spent in this room, of barbeques on the terrace with my Pod. Abigail was endlessly amused by everyone’s jokes and stories. Amanda loved to dance cumbia with Marco, Abigail and I being useless as dancing partners. The pair twirled and twisted together in the moonlight, their heat steaming up the night.

Memories of the mix of their scents and the vibration of their laughter cheered me. Whenever Abigail was particularly horny, she dressed in peach, like a ripe fruit ready to be picked. While Amanda’s version of seduction was more of a mind fuck, a word play. In this very chair, I’d experienced the bliss of connection when a lover massaged my shoulders, and it wasn’t considered “cheating.” Able to receive tenderness and touch from more than one person because love was infinite. We were an affront to the binary experience of monogamy. 

Twenty minutes later, Safir emerged with a glow and announced she’d set the timer for thirty minutes and would like to take a shower. I directed her to drop her bags in the office and use the shower in the guest loo across the hall, which would keep her away from my bathroom and my things.

She stomped about the office settling her things, then, naked, came out in the hall to search for a towel. I stared at her unapologetically. Safir had the curves of someone who ate generously from life’s feast. When she reached for something on the top shelf, I admired her dimpled butt checks and supple breasts that had seen their share of sun. She was unconscious of me watching her, or even her nakedness. It was a natural act, with no hidden intentions. Safir disappeared behind the white wooden door. For a moment, I was alone.

The song faded into an African beat as Safir reemerged, her hips gyrating to the song as she crossed the room. Her thick, curly, silver hair was wet and subdued by a ponytail, and she’d changed into Indian harem pants in a lovely salmon color, with a mustard yellow gauzy shirt. Safir caught me looking at her outfit, scrutinizing it really, and said emphatically, “best travel clothes ever. They’re naturally wrinkled, and they wash up great in a hostel bathroom sink.”

“Oh, it isn’t some 70s thing?” I replied. 

Safir was apparently a sensible woman when it came to fashion.

Ignoring me, she asked, “Do you want to eat in here or the kitchen?” as she went to finish the meal, moving like a satisfied cat.

“It’s warm enough to be outside.”

“Elise has a deck! We hit pay dirt,” she added from the kitchen. 

I had hit pay dirt. I had earned the privilege of enjoying Elise’s lifestyle. 

“Let me set the table out there,” I offered.

When I entered to gather dishes and utensils, I stopped for a second to observe Safir in the gentle recessed lighting as she wiped the counter until it glistened. The aromas were sumptuous, rich, and spicy. I discovered my hunger, got a quick peek in the oven as Safir poked inside to check for doneness. A casserole bubbled on the rack and salad veggies waited on the counter to join a bowl of lettuce greens. 

I carried plates and silverware to the spacious deck on the other side of the sliding glass door. Elise had a lovely view of the City. As I watched the evening sky turn from scarlet to a dusky purple, the image of Safir reaching for the towel intruded. Her breasts bouncing, nipples erect as she grabbed the fluffy terrycloth, then turned to the bathroom. I had muted the music to listen to the sound of the shower. To picture the beads of water travelling from her upturned face and down her slender neck, winding the course around her breast, past her waist and hips, lingering a second in her curly pubic hairs, before plopping to the shower floor below. I’d imagined the smell of her moist skin as she smoothed the coconut scented body wash over her tanned bottom; the one I’d put in the guest bathroom in case I felt up to seeing lovers from my Pod. 

There was no shame in imagining. Nothing would happen without her consent. Before my Pod, I’d never truly known willing touch; still believed that silent surrender was a yes. Would I know the difference now? Had the world changed enough to give women like Safir voice or would she still expect me to read her mind. The oven timer buzzed.

“It’s ready,” Safir called. “Salad coming up.”

We’d have a good meal, and then, I could think longer term in the morning.

I headed back for napkins, and carried out a gleaming bowl of salad, properly dressed for dinner in a coat of extra virgin olive oil and herbs. Safir followed with a casserole on a trivet between two colorful oven mitts. She sat it down triumphantly with an expectant look.

“Well, I can’t sing the dishes’ praises until I sample the thing.”

“Fine, I’ll get the wine,” she hesitated, considering, “And, I need hot sauce. You won’t need salt or pepper, but I’ll bring them, anyway. Anything else?”

I looked at the feast laid before me. “The baguette,” I replied. “We will tear it like savages. No need for a knife.”

Safir grinned.

I sat in quiet anticipation, about to dine on food that looked and smelled delicious, made from things I had selected for myself at Trader Joes, and had contributed nothing to the preparation. When I looked up at sound of Safir sliding the glass door, the look on my face reflected those thoughts.

She set down the wine, a bottle of sriracha and tiny dishes of fresh ground salt and pepper. I replayed the grocery list in my head. Artichokes, hard avocados, kale, Chinese broccoli, two packages of ground meat, chorizo, maple bacon sausages, a sack of brown rice, eggs, egg whites. Too much to remember. I’d gone wild. 

“Salad?” Safir offered as she thrust the bowl toward me. She’d use the blue cheese I’d bought generously. Vibrant greens and reds filled my plate next to the oozing square of casserole. A cherry tomato I popped between my teeth glistened with herbs and oil. Exquisite, I thought as it burst inside me.

Safir poured the wine, a Quinta do Crasto Superior I’d selected for the mystery meal, a hearty wine that can stand up to spiciness, then graciously accepted the piece of baguette I’d torn for her and set it on her plate, where she had added a tiny pool of spicy sauce in one corner. She grabbed her wine glass and raised it to me. I responded in kind.

“Na zdravie,” she clicked my glass.

Safir noted my confusion, “from my time in Prague, it’s Czech.” 

We took our first sip. 

I grabbed my knife and fork and sliced a bite. The flavors, perfectly married, were running down the aisle together, ending in a honeymoon orgy that was happening right now in my mouth. 

Guessing the ingredients lead to stories about great meals in places we’d travelled. Safir’s lust for life made my skin tingle. Thoughts of touching her were unshakable, the image of her nakedness, the notion of burying my grief between her sun-tanned breasts. 

“So, what are your plans now,” I asked. 

Safir shrugged, and continued to chew, more interested in soaking up sauce with her bread than answering my question. She swallowed, then countered with, “Warren, where do you live when you’re not staying at Elise’s?”

The conversation had swung in the wrong direction. The circumstances of my encampment at Elise’s were complicated.

“I’m transitioning from a long-term relationship.”

“Your old lady kick you out?” Safir laughed between chews. “Did your therapist tell you to say that ‘transitioning from a long-term relationship’?”

“That sounded like a bit of a moan, didn’t it?” Fortified with a gulp of wine, I trudged on. “I’m polyamorous.” I waited for a reaction. Safir offered none but maintained eye contact as she speared more salad greens.

“I was in a relationship with two women.”

Safir tilted her head slightly, either in sympathy or because she thought it rubbish. I wasn’t sure.

“Seven years,” I continued. “Breaking up the band. I’m considering a move to another city. I’ve got U.S. residency and a UK passport. My work allows me to be location independent. A change of scenery might be nice.”

Safir said nothing. Her jaws still in motion, her expression unreadable. I kept my attention on the food, not afraid of silence. The flavors in the casserole intensified with each chew. As I looked at Safir with gratitude, I lingered over her features. Her hair, her skin, her fingers as they worked pieces of bread across her plate. She wasn’t dainty, yet she wasn’t without grace. She brushed a stray hair away with the back of a hand, and stopped, catching my gaze.

“Sounds very mature… the moving on… after the two women.” She stared up at me. “You’re handsome, Warren, I’m sure you won’t be lonely for long.” 

Her smile was almost like a little girl’s giggle. Then she stabbed and poked at her salad until she had a mouthful and busied herself chewing. 

“What about you? What brought you back to the States?”

Safir mumbled something I didn’t understand.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Oh,” Safir swallowed and dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “I’m sorry, I was so hungry. Long travel day.” Her face softened, her eyes seemed to search the night for an answer. “I came to see Elise.”

There was no more. Back to her meal. We sat in silence.

“Warren, this Pod thing you and Elise are a part of. Is it a cult?

“No, it’s really the opposite,” I responded, use to the question. “Sure, we share similar beliefs, common philosophies.” I stopped. 

How to explain it? We were a neural network, swimming together in life’s ocean like dolphins communicating through waves of energy. If I left for different shores, started over in another city to get away from my heartbreak, I worried those waves wouldn’t still reach me?

“It’s more about freedom than isolation, more about connection than separating us from the world or limiting our thinking.” 

Safir looked up from her plate. “Hmm,” was her only reply. She leaned back in her seat and swirled the wine in her glass.

Being publicly poly was like being a communist in the 50’s, having to search for underground cells of sympathizers, who wouldn’t betray me to the sex police. In a new city, how would I find a new tribe? 

“We have a shared belief that Love, Faith, and Creation energy are the holy trinity, sexual union is creation energy. We believe this holy trinity is the universal life force that creates worlds.”

Safir deliberated between sips of wine and hard scrutiny.

“Honestly, you guys just sound like sex addicts. I mean good for you, and Elise, and these two women you’re leaving. No need to wrap it in satin sheets as some spiritual thing.” 

Well, this was disappointing.

Safir dipped her last piece of bread in the sauce left on her plate. 

“Isn’t that the kind of thing that cult leaders say so they can sleep with anyone they want? I’m the path to God.” Her face scrunched with a smirk.

“Well, that’s wonky, that comparison. It’s not all about sex.” 

How to explain this to someone outside of the experience?

“Have you ever had sex that was so mind blowing it left you with a lightness that took you some place infinite?” I searched Safir’s eyes, hopeful that even in the world’s mad war on sexual pleasure she had enjoyed a taste. That she was not one of those women who had never experienced climax.

As I waited for a response, I was able to observe Safir without the hunger and desperation that once made it difficult for me to see a woman as more than her body parts. My lovers, and the two women who vowed to be my life partners, had shown me abundance. Still, I wanted to slip my tongue between Safir’s wine-soaked lips and press against them with urgency. 

“Now that you mention it, Warren, I have.”

Was this a revelation, had she connected the dots? Hard to tell since her attention returned to the remaining food on her plate without further elaboration.

When I realized I’d been fantasizing about popping a cherry tomato into Safir’s mouth to watch her crush the juicy orb between her perfect teeth, I noticed the bottle was empty and offered to get another. We reached for the wine at the same moment, our fingers touching mid-bottle. There was a crackle that surged through my fingers and she pulled her hand away. Unnerved, I grabbed the bottle and retreated to the kitchen.

Halfway there, I heard Safir say she’d had enough, but kept going, searching for another excuse. “Coffee?”

“Yeah, sure. That’d be great.”

I reached the counter and clutched the side. Safir could be an interesting lover, with her mystery and secrets. Would it be so bad to sleep with her? Wait. I had made love to Elise on this very counter. Wow! What would Elise say about me doing the same thing to her niece? Safir’s opinion on the subject, might not be consistent with mine, yet it wasn’t necessarily incompatible. She seemed to be a free spirit. It could make this whole enforced stay more tolerable. I drew a breath. Or more terrible. I truthfully didn’t know this woman. 

I scanned the counters to remember where I’d left the coffee. The freezer, of course, the way the women taught me. It stays fresher. 

Patting my hardening dick underneath my jeans in a gesture of reassurance, I took a few deep inhales to appreciate this moment in the goalless way I’d learned. The sensations were a reward all their own. I pulled the coffee from the freezer and immersed myself in the ritual of making two cups.

I arrived back at the table with two mugs, a small dish of raw sugar, cream, and dessert. A lemon tart I’d fancied while hunting for the baguette at the market. Too many carbs for the women. From the sounds Safir made after each bite she was appreciative. 

“Warren, I hope I haven’t offended you… about your beliefs.”

Well, this was a surprise. A contrite Safir.

“Happens all the time. People would rather believe that suffering is the path to heaven, instead of joy.” 

Safir looked at me with questions on her face. Had I struck a nerve? 

She sat back and took a bite of her tart.

“It’s good to know this lemon tart is my ticket to heaven.”

We shared a laugh.

“You must think I’m as mad as a bag of ferrets.” I used the term to amuse, keep the laughter going. It was the British thing to do, disarm with humor.

“Oh, you’re mad all right.” She paused. “It’s a nice madness, though.”

Fair enough, I thought, and relaxed a bit.

After coffee and dessert, I offered to do the dishes and cleared the table, while Safir fell into the sofa pillows, looking knackered. Doing dishes had been our ritual, me, Abigail, and Amanda; as whoever cooked, the other two did the dishes. One rinsed, the other one loaded the dishwasher. One washed the pots and the other one cleaned the counters. 

Now it was just me in the kitchen. I took my time, enjoyed the warm soapy water as it ran through my fingers. Lemon scent and glycerin. Plates, glasses, and utensils in the dishwasher. Pots scrubbed clean in the dish drainer. Leftovers stacked neatly in the refrigerator. Counter wiped clean. Finished, I shut off the kitchen light and returned to the living room.

Safir was breathing hard, eyes closed. I covered her with the throw from the back of the sofa and turned off the music. When I was at my bedroom door she called out.

“It’s nice to be here with you, Warren. You have good energy.”

“Sleep tight.” I turned with a smile and switched off the light.