"Goodnight, Angela." Jesus, my voice breaks when I say that. How am I going to get through tonight? Lying next to her in this little bed, in this weird motel, after all that we've talked about, sharing one set of pajamas?

"Goodnight, Anthony," she teases. I didn't get to know the mischievous side of her till fairly recently. When we first met, she had a dry, sarcastic sense of humor but she didn't show me her playful side. Really, it wasn't till that night we were both drunk in the kitchen, trying to bake a birthday cake, that I thought Angela likes to play. I don't mean in a Tanya sense. There's something innocent about Angela, even when she's sexy.

"Goodnight, Ingrid," I tease back. She's Ingrid. There is no Ingrid. I built this whole little story in my head, measured every kiss for over twenty years against that first, and then it turns out I never kissed an Ingrid. I kissed an Angela.

I kissed her again a few months ago. OK, she kissed me first, but I kissed back. And I'm the one who grabbed her and we looked into each other's eyes and—Now here I am wanting to kiss her again, no matter what she calls herself. Well, more than kiss.

She's your boss, she's your boss, she's your boss, I chant in my head, like I'm some crazy monk who hasn't got the celibacy thing down yet.

"Tony?"

"Yeah, Angela?"

"Are we going to tell anyone it was us?"

"No, what would be the point? Mona would think it meant we were supposed to be together, and Sam, well, you saw her, how romantic she thought it was."

"She's just a little girl. Twelve is a starry-eyed age."
"She's almost as old as my 'older woman' was that summer."

"Right." She shakes her head. "And now Anthony and Ingrid have grown up."

"Yeah."
"Tony, what would you have done if you'd met Ingrid under other circumstances? As an adult I mean."

"If she wasn't you? If she wasn't my boss?"

"Yes."

"If she wasn't someone whose friendship I don't want to lose?"

"I'm sorry, Tony, I shouldn't even have asked."
"But you did ask, Angela. So I'm going to tell you. If somehow I ended up here in bed with Ingrid, at the least, the very least, I would have to find out if she was still as good a kisser as I thought she was all these years."

"But Tony you kissed me—OK, I kissed you, a few months ago. And you remember it better than I do."

"Yeah, I kissed you. I didn't kiss Ingrid."

"But I'm—Oh, right. Yes, I think Ingrid would want to see if Anthony was still as magical a kisser as he was in her memory."

"Magical?" I prop myself up on my elbow.

She blushes a little. "Yes, magical."

I bring my face closer, look into those deep dark eyes. "Ingrid must've known some pretty strong magic herself, to keep me thinkin' about her after so long." I remember now, right before she closed her eyes and I kissed her, Ingrid had those eyes. I've been thinking of her lips all these years. Well, and sometimes her bug spray. But yeah, the eyes, I can see them again.

She reaches her hand out and strokes my hair, like she did that night, only without the awkwardness of inexperience. That night, it was like she'd seen it in a movie, this is what you do when you kiss. When she stroked my hair in the kitchen though, it was to keep me close.

I fall into her now. I don't know how else to put it. I don't mean it's like an accident, but it's like gravity. Like the "walls of Jericho" falling when you try to put up a sheet between a rich girl and a working-class guy who are trying to platonically share a bedroom. Maybe the '80s aren't as different from the '30s as I thought.

She closes her eyes, not just because she saw it in a movie but because she wants to feel me, taste me. I know because I close mine, too, as my lips find her lips easily, inevitably. My tongue darts out, so I can kiss her more deeply. Then I wonder if this is too much too soon and I back out.

"You taste like Ingrid, only riper," I murmur, as I stroke her soft cheeks, her long neck.

"Your palms are sweaty," she teases. She's right. I'm wearing nothing but pajama bottoms, and the ceiling is leaking, but I'm sweating. Nerves, excitement? Maybe both.

"Sorry."

"I'm flattered. Anthony." That little spin on the name, which really is my name, even if I lied about my age. Anthony Morton Micelli, although she doesn't know about the Morton. We've gotten close in the last year, but there's still a lot we don't know. Hell, just in the last few hours, we've found out a lot.

"Is that how you remember Anthony kissing?"

"No. But Anthony has a lot more kissing experience these days."

"Yeah." There's no point in denying it. "And Ingrid's not quite so shy and awkward."

"Not quite." She pulls my head back down to hers and this time it's her tongue that's adventurous. Now, I've French-kissed quite a bit, obviously, but I've never, no, not even with Marie, done what starts happening now, this thing that's like the mouth equivalent of dancing, or of, well, of humping. Her tongue wraps around mine and I thrust inside, while we're licking each other. And our lips are dancing, too, and if a tongue could come, mine would.

I stop to breathe, to think, but as soon as I lie back, her face is on top of mine, kissing me, claiming me, and I want to say, "Lady, if you make love like you kiss, I want to marry you!" But of course I would never say that, especially to Angela. Maybe to Ingrid.

"Anthony, are you going to tell anyone you kissed Ingrid tonight?"

"Who would believe me?" I don't believe it myself.

She laughs and the way she tosses her hair, that beautiful wild blonde head, I want her even more. And this can't be possible. It's like there's no maximum. I think I've hit it and then she pushes me past it.

I reach up for her, trying to be gentle because it's Angela, but wanting Ingrid so bad, and I pull her hair as I bring her face back to mine. I want to apologize, but she moans. I made Angela moan! OK, I made Ingrid moan, but it's also Angela, and it's not dessert-related for once, except it's so sweet.

She's the one who says sorry. I shake my head. "Never apologize for that, Ang—Ingrid. I want you to feel good. And I want to make you make happy noises."
"OK," she whispers.

And now we're kissing softly, like we're trying to get our bearings and make sure we're OK, but also like we can't stop kissing for very long.

"Is this better, Anthony? The way things aren't?"

"I don't know, Ingrid. I'm likin' it's so far, but it's too soon to say."

She snuggles against me, and I start having all these other feelings, like protectiveness, because let's face it, Angela doesn't kiss passionately in motel rooms, although Ingrid might. And as Angela's friend, I wonder if she's getting in over her head.

"You said, you said you didn't want us to lose each other as friends."

"I don't."

"Then should we stop?"

I laugh. "How, Angela?" It's a question for her, not Ingrid.

"You could go back to the chair."

"I don't want to go back to the chair. You don't want me to go back to the chair."

"I could sleep in the lobby."

"With that weird motel manager hangin' around? I don't think so. If anyone's gonna sleep in the lobby, it'll be me."

"No, stay here." She wraps her arms tighter around me, resting her head on my shoulder.

"I don't want to be anywhere else tonight."

"It's just one night."

"What?"

"That's all Anthony and Ingrid have. That's all they had then, too. Well, 57 seconds." She pokes me in the ribs.

"Ay, I said I was sorry."

"In case you can't tell, I've mostly forgiven you." She turns serious again. "They thought they'd never see each other again."

"Who?"

"Anthony and Ingrid. Two kids from different worlds."
"Yeah. Little did they know."

"The kiss was sort of its own world, they got lost in it for only a minute, but it stayed with them. And he wanted to remember, so he carved her name."

"Yeah." I didn't do it when Bruce Weinberger was there. I went back across the lake in the rowboat we "borrowed" and I collected my bet and acted like a little stud. But the next night I went back. I don't know what I was thinkin'. We hadn't made plans to meet up again. But I guess I hoped she'd come lookin' for me again. And she didn't of course, but I wished she would. And I carved her name, and mine. Then for twenty years I tried to forget about her. And I wouldn't have ever known it was us, except that Jonathan, her son, the closest thing I'll probably ever have to a son, got homesick.

"They know," she says suddenly.

"Who?"

"Mother and the kids."

"They know we kissed?"

"No, they know we're in the same motel room. I just remembered. The manager said he'd call the camp for us."

"Yeah, but it's not like he's gonna tell them room numbers."

"He might."
"God, you're right. He might. He may even tell them what we were wearing when he brought the pajamas."

We both start laughing. I can feel our bodies shaking together, and it's not sexual exactly, but I think of how she leaned on me and laughed at that awkward dinner for two we had soon after I moved in. What am I doing now? This is crazy! But how do you uncross lines?

"Did you really like how I looked in the sheet?"

"What, are you kiddin' me? Of course I did!"

"You look great without a shirt. Did you know that when It Happened One Night came out, Clark Gable ruined undershirt sales because he looked so good with a bare chest?"
"Yeah, I know." We're both old-movie buffs.

"I think that's when I first got interested in advertising."

"Huh?"

"When I first heard that story. It made me see how influential media can be."

"Yeah? Well, we watched porn together and we're not—" Don't say that word to Angela! Not even to Ingrid.

She blushes then giggles. "If we had set out to have a naughty weekend, we'd certainly have all the right elements for it."

"Yeah."

"Tony?"

"Yes, Angela?" It's getting to the point where I'm almost afraid to ask, but how can I not?

"Would you be willing to risk losing what you have with Ingrid?"

"Huh?"
"Well, I think we've both built that kiss up into something beyond what it was."

"But it was a great, special kiss!" I can admit that now.

"I know. But it was just a kiss. Not even our best. Or Anthony and Ingrid's best."

"Well, no."

"Ingrid is not your boss. She is not your dear friend that you are raising two children with, watching movies with, eating meals with."

"No," I say slowly. "Angela is."

"Ingrid's just a girl you kissed one summer. That's your whole history."

"Well, yeah, I guess you can look at it that way."
"Anthony, you are alone in bed with Ingrid. You want her." Her fingertips graze my crotch with the lightness of a butterfly, but she might just as well have grabbed me with both hands, the way I respond. (And believe me, I haven't exactly been flaccid tonight.) "She wants you." Her other hand leads one of mine to her chest and I can feel her nipples greet me even through the pajama top. "What does that have to do with Tony and Angela, really?"

I've never had more trouble thinking clearly, even when I've been drunk, and I've never needed to think clearly more. "Separate" is the only word I can verbalize.

She nuzzles my neck, and she knows from that Machismo commercial how I like nuzzling. "That's right. Tony and Angela are who they are. We're Anthony and Ingrid."

Now, it's not like I can't separate sex from other parts of my life. With women like Betty and Tanya, sex is just sex. But that's not what Angela (or is it Ingrid?) is suggesting. She's not saying, "Let's have a one-night stand. Let's do the nasty and then act like it meant nothing." She's saying, I think, that Tony & Angela will go on. Everything we've been to each other, just getting deeper over time. But Anthony & Ingrid get one grown-up night, to do whatever they want, to mean whatever it means.

So how do I react? Do I pull away, storm out, and sleep in the lobby? You kiddin' me?

I start undoing the pajama top. She sighs happily. Then she nuzzles my neck some more, whispering, "Please, Anthony, please, touch them."

Of course I do. There was no feeling her up, no trying to unhook her training bra, back then. Not with Bruce Weinberger watching, and not when I'd never even kissed a girl before. But as I got older, I'd picture Ingrid filling out, letting me touch her.

Little did I know I'd get to see Ingrid naked. Yeah, it was a complete accident, for which I apologized a dozen times. But you can't uncross that line either. Angela fresh and clean out of the bath, standing right there in front of me. You think I didn't wish that hadn't gone so badly? That I couldn't have seen her like that under happier circumstances?

And then a little while ago, she was in the "form-fitting sheet." And now she's letting me see her again, under happier circumstances.

I'm sure my hands are still sweating. Here I am, a grown, experienced man and I'm feeling nervous again. But I get the buttons undone. Her skin is much paler than mine—well, she did say she stayed out of the sun this summer—and so soft, so smooth.

"Anthony!" she gasps.

So sensitive. I'm going gently at first, not even touching her breasts, although you can bet your life I'm lookin' at them. My hands are just below her shoulders but my eyes are further down.

OK, you know what? I have seen bigger breasts. So what? I've never seen more beautiful ones. The shapes (round but with a little sauciness to them), the colors, including this pink that's like her favorite roses.

"You've got really pretty tits, Ingrid." I almost bite my tongue. You can't say that to Angela! Maybe not even to Ingrid.

She blushes and grins. "Thank you, Anthony." And she moves my hands down, so that I'm cupping her breasts. She sighs like she's been wanting me to do this for months. For all I know, she's been wanting Anthony to do this for years.

Then she kisses me and we kiss and kiss, while I'm holding and sometimes stroking or even squeezing her breasts. Her tongue gets playful, so I tweak her nipples, not too hard because of her sensitivity, but enough to make her pull on my hair a little.

My God, even if I don't get to be inside this woman tonight, she's already ruined me for anyone else! What am I saying? No, this is just a good makeout. I'm a grown man, I've had other women, this should not be getting to me like this.

She kisses my neck and then nuzzle nuzzle. "Anthony, can you kiss them?"

"Kiss your pretty tits, Ingrid? Is that what you want?"

"Yes, Anthony." Her voice hits this low register I've only heard a few times, like when she said, "So would you," when I told her she would remember it if we ever really went to bed.

At this point, my brain has melted so much I would loan her an interest-free $5000, so obviously I'm not gonna refuse giving her chest some more pleasure. Not when it's exactly what I want to do anyway.

I scoot down the little bed and my feet hang off but I don't care. I'd make out with her in the chair if I had to.

I cup one of her breasts and angle it so I can kiss the nipple. Very light at first, that's what I've learned about what Ingrid likes. She still gasps like she can't believe my lips are there. And my hand strokes and caresses the surrounding whiteness.

"So soft," I murmur, "but firm." Then I do the other one as best I can in this position.

She calls my name, well, Anthony's name. She's getting less self-conscious about making noises, and who could hear us over the thunderstorm anyway? The rain is pounding again, and so's her heartbeat.

I let her get used to me, and then I mix it up a little, get more teasing and also more demanding, till I'm sucking her tits. Mmm, sucking Ang—I mean Ingrid's tits. I bet she hasn't had anyone do this in awhile. She's certainly reacting like she hasn't.

Angela and I never talk about what we do with other people. I know she slept with Grant and Michael, because it was kind of hard not to know. She knows about Trish, because that was sort of in her face. We date a lot of different people, but I can't think that all those stiffs in suits are getting to second base with her. And to be honest, Michael's the only one who seemed capable of any kind of passion.

"Anthony, so good, so good, oh, oh, oh!"

It hits me like a sledgehammer: I can make Angela, OK, Ingrid come tonight. I bet not all her boyfriends, even the ones she goes to bed with, can say that. There's this pride, she'd probably call it my macho Brooklyn Italian pride, that makes me want to satisfy her thoroughly, to be able to say I did that. But there's also, I don't know what to call it, the thing that makes me mix her favorite martinis when she comes home from work. I like figuring out what she likes and doing it for her. Not as a servant, not as a friend, but both, neither, I don't know. I want to do that tonight, even if it's for Ingrid instead of Angela.

"What do you need, Baby?" I haven't risked pet names but it slips out. It feels right. "Baby" isn't quite Angela or Ingrid. It's the woman I want to satisfy.

"OH!" she gasps, and I don't know if it's at me calling her that, or at what my hands and mouth are doing.

"I wanna give you what you want, what you need."

"Darling!"

I wasn't expecting that. I freeze for a moment.

"Honey, can I show you?"

"Yeah, Baby, whatever you want." I slip right back into it. I don't know. Maybe Anthony & Ingrid wouldn't worry about this. They'd just do and say what feels right.

She guides one of my hands onto her smooth, flat stomach and then down to her pale pink panties.

"Does Ingrid want to be naked?"

She nods. So I help her out of her panties. Then she guides my hand between her legs. I almost feel like I'm a virgin again. I can't take anything for granted anymore. After all, I've been with women, but I haven't been with Ingrid before.

"Do you see how wet you've made me?"
"That's not from the rain?"

"No, Anthony, it's not. What do you intend to do about it?"

"What would you like me to do about it, Ingrid?"

"The same thing you've done elsewhere."

It takes me a moment to process that, but then I understand. Very light touches, so I can get her used to me. And then tease. And after awhile, put my mouth to work as well as my hands.

If you've never kissed Ingrid, I guess you can't really understand that it's not like kissing anyone else. OK, yes, the mechanics of it are the same, but the feelings aren't. Well, there was Marie, but I don't know that Anthony would've married Marie, and anyway that's different. Separate.

Everywhere you kiss Ingrid, it's like your lips are on fire, like your brain has never been so muddled but so awake. Every inch of her, although of course some more than others, is responsive, to light touches and to hard sucks. It's like nothing else your mouth will ever do—laughing, eating, drinking, talking—will ever give you this much joy, or bring so much joy to another person.

So, yeah, I make Ingrid come. More than once. And then I'm the one who falls back on the bed afterwards, in exhaustion and disbelief.

"Is that what you wanted, Ingrid?" I gasp.

"Yes." She snuggles up against me, and I'm thinkin' Oh, good, Angela's back, my friend. But no, she's still Ingrid. "Some of what I wanted."

"You want more?" I want to give it to her but I need to catch my breath.

"I want you," she says simply and directly. And then she starts kissing and caressing me, but not just my face. Down to my arms and my chest, squeezing my muscles, giving my nipples harder tweaks than I gave her, but I can take it.

And then her hand finds its way into the pajama bottoms.

"Angela!" I need to talk to Angela, I need some sanity.

"I showed you how wet you made me. You need to show me how hard I've made you."
"Well, it's not exactly something I can hide."

But she brings my erection out anyway. She nuzzles my neck and croons, "Nice and hard and big," while she plays with my penis. And I could tell her what I want done to me but I'm, well, leaving it in her hands.

"Poor Tony and Angela," she whispers. "I bet they would love to make love."

"Yeah, I bet they would."

"Angela would lllllooooovvve to have Tony inside her. But it would ruin their friendship."

"Yeah!" I gasp.

"Would Tony like to be inside Angela?"

"GOD YEAH!" I know there are a million reasons to say no, but I can't think of any at this second.

And then, Ingrid, damn her! She's playing with me, I mean she's totally playing with me. My penis, my brain, my heart. And it's wonderful and it's terrible and we're kissing again and my tongue humps the hell out of her mouth while her hands make me come.

"INGRID, OH GOD! INGRID!"

"Mmm, Anthony," Ingrid purrs.

But the rest of the night, she's Angela, only holding my hand as we sleep, both hands sticky, and not just from sweat. And in the morning, we smile at each other and we know we'll never tell anyone what happened the second night Anthony and Ingrid met up. I just hope we don't have to wait another twenty years.