The cabin is nice. Nothing fancy but nice. Rustic I guess, but not Yuppie rustic, and not falling-apart rustic. Just nice and rustic.

Other than the bathroom Angela wanted, it's got a little kitchen area with a wood stove, which I can work with, and of course the living/bedroom. I'm kind of glad it's got a convertible sofa bed. It makes the reason why we're here a little less obvious. After all, we're not even going to try to watch TV this time, not that there is a TV.

"So, here we are," Angela says, shutting the door behind us. She's not yet Ingrid. I think we're both a little nervous. We agreed we don't have to have sex this weekend but it's a possibility. And I don't think we came all this way just to hold hands.

"Yeah," I say, setting our bags down. I wish I knew what else to say, not that Anthony and Ingrid ever did much talking.

"Um, do you want to use the bathroom first or should I?"
"Uh, I'll go first, if it's OK." I just have to pee and shave my five o'clock shadow. I'm not sure if we're changing into our pajamas yet or not. It's not even dark yet. But I think I'll at least take off my shoes.

"Yes, go ahead."
"Thanks." I decide not to take everything into the bathroom with me, just my shaving kit. The bathroom's kind of on the small side. Any hopes of a bubble bath for two, or even a nice hot shared shower go out the window, but it's OK. I feel like we're more ready for sex than we are for that sort of intimacy, if that makes sense.

When I emerge from the bathroom, I ask, "Do you want me to start dinner while you're in there?"

"Oh, are you going to cook tonight?"
"Well, yeah, I brought a few things. I mean, it's kind of far to have a pizza delivered, let alone Chinese."

"True. Thank you, Tony."

"You're welcome, Angela." We're not yet playing the game, being them. I don't think we have to every moment. Just the moments that don't belong to us, the Tony & Angela we're trying to preserve.

When she goes into the bathroom, I go take the groceries out of the van. I went to the market nearest the train station where we were meeting up. I got things that wouldn't spoil, just in case there wasn't a fridge, and there isn't. Rice, canned stuff, cereal. We're only staying two nights so I didn't have to get a lot. And obviously this is not the weekend to prepare any elaborate feasts. I hope to be otherwise occupied. On the other hand, I can't let Ingrid starve.

I make tuna and rice while I wait. By the time it's ready, she comes out in a cute blue & white polka-dot sundress I've never seen before, with her hair up, which I like, although I don't think she knows that.

"Nice," I say. I never know how to compliment Angela. I'm always afraid of saying too much. And with Ingrid, well, I'm just getting to know her again.

"Thank you. I figured something informal would be all right, since we're dining in."

"Yeah. Uh, sorry I didn't change." Truth is, I didn't bring a change of anything but two pairs of underwear and one shirt. My hope was I wouldn't be wearing clothes most of the weekend, and I would just need something different enough to come home from "Brooklyn" in.

"You look nice. Well, you always look nice."

I thank her and can't help thinking that she's still getting used to complimenting me, too.

There's no dining table or even coffee table, so we just sit on the couch and hold our plates and our forks. I kind of wish we did have a TV, at least for this part. It would help to relax watching it, and maybe we could snuggle up after dinner.

We talk about Mona and the kids and the agency and the house, but there's not much to say, considering we see each other every day.

We sit in silence for awhile, well, except for the sounds of chewing.

Then I say, "I wonder what Ingrid's been up to in the past year."

Not for nothin' is Angela in advertising. "Well, let me tell you about Ingrid," she says and launches into a story, like she's Ingrid's best friend. Apparently, Ingrid never married. She just devoted herself to her career, as a professor of Literature at NYU. She lives with her cats Charlotte, Emily, Anne, and Branwell. (Angela has to explain to me that they're named after the Bronte family. I've seen the '30s version of Wuthering Heights, with Olivier, but I've never read the books.) She says, "They don't sleep in her bed." I know she's teasing me about Cassandra the Crazy Cat Lady.

"Good."

"Oh, and Ingrid published a new book last Fall. Well, you know, publish or perish."

"Uh, right."

"And Anthony, how's he doing?"

"Oh, well, you know Anthony." What am I doin' in this parallel world? Did I marry, did I have kids? "He never married either. I don't know if he ever will settle down."

"Oh, so he dates a lot?"

"Well, yeah, some. But mostly he's real into his career, too."

"As?"

"Uh, as a chef."

"Oh, how nice!"

"Yeah, he loves to cook. And, uh, yeah, he's a chef at an Italian restaurant."

"He'll have to cook for Ingrid sometime."

"Well, he'd have to have a fancier kitchen than this. To do anything really impressive. And it's not like they see each other long enough, or often enough, for him to spend half the day cooking."

"True."

We look down at our plates and we've finished eating without even noticing.

"Allow me to take your plate, Madame."

"Oh, I can help you buss the, um, couch."

So we take our plates over to the kitchenette. I find myself thinking of Gina, how she didn't want to cook together, when that was something I'd looked forward to, having that in common, like with Marie. Angela likes to help me in the kitchen, even if sometimes it's like Sam helping me when she was little. Angela is very smart, but not about cooking. Even with dish-washing, well, she's been known to break a plate or two. Luckily, these are paper, and the forks are plastic, so we just throw them in the trash.

"Well, so much for dinner and the dishes," I say.

"What do you think Ingrid and Anthony would do next?"

"Well, we do know they like to kiss, and this might be a good moment."

"Yes, it might."

So we lean towards each other and kiss. It's not a hot, needy kiss like the drunk one in the kitchen back home, but it is our first kiss in a year. It's experimental I guess you could call it. I don't think we're back in Anthony & Ingrid mode yet.

Maybe we can't be, I suddenly think. Maybe Anthony & Ingrid can't be planned. Maybe this was a mistake, nice though it is.

"How about we go back to the sofa?"

"OK," I say.

We go over and sit back down. She takes my hand and squeezes it.

"Do you think Anthony and Ingrid have been thinking about each other?"

"Well, yeah. I told you. He thought about her all those years, wondering how her teeth turned out."

"I mean this past year."

"Well, yeah, Anthony would. He never expected to see her again, and to have a night like that, out of nowhere. Yeah, he'd think about her."

She nods. "Anthony is like no other man she's ever met. Ingrid thinks about him."
"Yeah?" My voice gets a little huskier. "What does she think?"

"She thinks about how lucky she was to see him again, but how unlucky, too."
"Unlucky?"

"Because she can't see more of him. Because he doesn't fit into her everyday life. Because he's separate."

"Yeah. Anthony would love to have Ingrid around more, but it wouldn't work."

"Right. Still, they met again, a year later."

"After the motel?"

"Yes, and they found a rustic little cabin. Far from their everyday lives."

"Yeah, because they had to be alone, be together again, even if it's just for a couple days."

And then it clicks and Angela and I start kissing passionately. Or Anthony and Ingrid I guess I should say.

Soon I'm kissing her bare neck. "Missed you, Baby," I murmur.

"I missed you, too, Anthony!" she gasps.

Her dress has two narrow shoulder straps, no sleeves, and it's lowcut by her usual standards, if still pretty modest. The skirt is very long. I don't know why she's so shy about her great legs.

I kiss where her skin is bare, and she makes those happy little sounds I like to hear. Then I lower the straps and kiss her shoulders. She's not wearing a bra. I remember her breasts from a year ago and want to see them again. But I don't have to rush this. We have two nights instead of one this time, and we do not have to face the family in the morning.

Yeah, the family. We are a family, the five of us I mean. I try not to think of what this would do to the kids and Mona if they knew we were sneaking around like this. Anyway, it's not us, it's Anthony and Ingrid.

Angela kisses my face and undoes the buttons of my shirt. She nuzzles me. She must know what that does to me. And then she starts caressing my chest and I want to do the same to her.

"So this sundress," I say. "What's it got, a zipper? Or do you just pull it over your head?"

She blushes a little. "There are buttons down the back."

I run my hand along her back, finding the big buttons, which I later notice are white. I undo them one by one, slowly, and then ease down the top of her dress, exposing her chest and stomach.

"Bellísima," I whisper.

"Grazie," she replies. Her accent is terrible, but I appreciate the attempt.

I caress her with my eyes as well as my hands. Not yet my mouth, I'm saving that.

"Anthony," she murmurs again.

"Ingrid. Beautiful Ingrid."

"Oh, To—Anthony."

"What does beautiful Ingrid want to do now?"

"Well, um, if it's not too early, maybe we should convert the sofa."

"It's not too early."

So, with a little nervous laughter from both of us, we flatten the sofa into a bed, piling the cushions where they'll provide the most comfort.

Then I have her lay back while I prop myself up on an elbow. "So, Ingrid, how's it goin'?"

"I can't complain."

"I hope not."

And then I kiss her sweet mouth and caress her breasts, softly with both at first, and then teasing with my tongue and my thumbs.

"Ingrid, why did you wear such a long skirt?" I ask after awhile.

"Oh, well, I usually wear long skirts."

"But you've got such gorgeous legs, from what I remember."

"Thank you, Anthony."

"Why don't you show them off?"

"I'm shy."

"You don't have to be shy with me, Ingrid."

"Thank you. But also, well, I didn't want you to think I brought you up here for only one thing."

"So you're not just after my body?"

"No, not just."

"I'm after your body, Ingrid," I risk saying. "I like what I know of your mind and other parts you have inside, but I like your body. I want to see more of it."

"Well, I guess I could shorten my skirt." So she hikes it up for me. And I grin at the sight of those two long stems of hers.

I scoot down and caress her legs. Her hem now hangs mid-thigh, like a micro-mini. Watching her dark brown eyes, I move my hands up under her skirt. She gasps but doesn't stop me.

I'm in just the right position to start kissing her chest, so I do. I tease her inner thighs with my hands as my mouth teases her tits. She arches her back and I imagine moving inside her. But there's time for that later, hopefully this weekend, although I know not to assume anything about Ingrid.

Then she says, "Come up here. I want to kiss you some more." So I do. And we kiss, and I squeeze her breasts and she arches again, and I want to play between her legs.

"Does Ingrid want help taking her panties off again?"
"Yes, Anthony."

So I help her. This time they're blue, a pastel, rather than the bright blue of the sundress that's now covering very little of her.

Then I make her eyes widen in surprise and then close in pleasure. She comes—I love the way she comes, like a candle melting combined with waves crashing—whispering in my ear and nuzzling my neck to let me know just how much she likes it, well, loves it.

"Anthony," she sighs.

But I'm not done. She's open for me now and my fingers slip inside her. I did some of this last time but not like this. And I watch her eyes as much as I can. I can't explain why, except that they're so expressive, even when they're closed.

"Did you miss that, Baby?" I tease after she comes again.

"That's some of what I missed," she says, and her hands go for my belt buckle. Oh, yes, this is definitely Ingrid now.

And in a way, I'd love another handjob, but I want to be inside her. I love our foreplay, but I don't want to stay there forever. Maybe tomorrow we can do the real thing. This can be our getting-reacquainted night.

Then she says, "Did you bring condoms?"

Condoms? I haven't used condoms since I was a teenager in the '60s, and you can imagine how that used to go over in Confession.

"Neither of us has been celibate, Anthony. And AIDS is a risk even for heterosexuals."

"Oh, right." I've been hearing that more and more. But I've been lucky so far, and the women I've been with are usually on some form of birth control. "No, I didn't bring any."

"I did."

I stare at her.

"I didn't want to make any assumptions. But just in case. And I'm on the Pill, so we should be safe from pregnancy."
"Well, good." What the hell's wrong with me? Why didn't I even think about that? What a disaster that would be if I got Angela pregnant! Hell, it would be no picnic for Anthony and Ingrid either, considering how they hardly ever see each other. What am I saying? There is no Anthony & Ingrid. Well, not exactly

"Let me go get my overnight bag." So she gets up while I lie here, half stunned that we seem to be about to have sex. Yeah, we've been talkin' and thinkin' about it, but that's a long way from doin' it.

She fishes in her bag and then comes back with a box of Trojans. "I didn't know what brand you'd like. Next time, um, I mean if there is a next time, you can pick them out. Or we can go shopping together, whatever you prefer."

Yeah, I can just see us at the drugstore back home, going, "So, for our wild weekend with secret identities, do you think we should get the kind that are lubricated on the inside? How do you feel about ribbed for your pleasure?"

These, like the cabin, look nice but not fancy. I don't get a close look at them because she says, "I should probably put it on you since you've got my, um, fluids on your hands."

I don't argue. Ingrid is going to undress me, put a condom on me, and have sex with me. That's all I need to know.

She unzips my jeans and helps me ease them down. I've got boxers on. I thought about wearing sexy underwear, but that's not really my thing, and anyway I didn't want her to think I was making assumptions.

She eases the boxers down, too. Now I'm just wearing my socks and my unbuttoned shirt.

She smiles down at me. "You're gorgeous, Anthony. Do you know that?"

"Well, it's always nice to hear."

She laughs, but in a nice way. And then she unwraps a condom and slides it onto me. My penis remembers the feel of her hands and it almost feels like he's grinning. He doesn't even mind the condom, not with her putting it on.

And then, this is very Ingrid, she mounts me! Her skirt swirls around us like a tent. And she carefully, slowly slides herself onto me, me into her.

We both gasp at the first moment of penetration. Our bodies are eager for more, but our minds are almost in shock. At least I assume hers is, from her facial expression.

"Anthony, you're inside me," she murmurs.

"Yeah, Baby, it feels good." It does. The condom might as well not be there for all my penis cares. As far as he's concerned, he's in her. "Real good!"

Then she brings her face down to nuzzle my neck and whisper, "It's really happening! I can't believe it!"

"Me neither," I whisper back. "So good inside you, Baby."

I'm not thrusting yet. I'm barely moving. I'm letting her get to know me like this. When she's ready, then I'll do some exploring.

She swims on me for awhile and then says, "Anthony, don't you want to make love to me?"

That word. That word that I can't say to her. The word that slipped out when I was in the hospital. I think I meant that I love her like a dear friend, someone I would trust to raise my daughter if something happened to me. But she's my boss, and you can't love your boss, can you? Well, Mona told Jonathan that "there's the way you love your housekeeper." Does Angela love me like that?

Anthony and Ingrid can't love each other. I mean, yeah, puppy love or whatever back when they were kids. But they don't really know each other enough to do more than like each other. Still, do you have to love someone to make love?

And it will be making love. It won't be humping or a cruder term. Well, maybe a little of that. But I think Anthony would make love to Ingrid if she asked him to, even if they never saw each other again. Or maybe only once a year.

"I would love to," I tell her. And then, cautiously at first, I thrust from underneath. She shudders in pleasure, which makes me thrust more.

"I need to get on top," I say. For all I know, Ingrid is too much of a feminist to allow that. But I can't get a good rhythm from underneath.

"OK," she says and carefully dismounts. We both look at the condom, but it's still snug around me. We lay next to each other, and I give her some more manual, and she spreads her legs wide for me. And she's so beautiful that I almost can't stand it.

And the only thing I can do then is get on top of her and enter her, slowly, teasingly, at first, till she begs for it, for me. It's partly an ego thing, to make Ang—I mean Ingrid want me as bad as I want her. But it's also that I have to know that this is what she really wants.

"Anthony, please!" she says desperately, impatiently. And then and then and then. And then!

Words are great. I love words, although not as much as Angela does. But sometimes words can't capture feelings, or the feel of something.

I kiss her as I move inside her, not just kissing her mouth, but all around her face, and along her neck. I call her name when I come, and I want to say Angela, but it wouldn't be fair. She's so lucky that she gets to say my real name, even if it's not my everyday name. But then I think Anthony is closer to who Tony is than Ingrid is to Angela.

I last long enough to give her one more orgasm for the night, but I come as she arches her back that time. And then all I want to do is sleep, but luckily she's sleepy, too, so she doesn't mind. I wish I could sleep inside her! That's crazy of course. I haven't felt like that since Marie, and that scares me of course.

I settle for sleeping with our legs intertwined, her head on my shoulder, like a year ago. But, yeah, this year is very different. For one thing, we'll get a second night.