By this point, Angela and I don't even bother with the pretense of the Fairfield train station. I mean, yeah, I say I'm dropping her off at the station on my way to my camping trip, but she doesn't actually take the train like she did the first time. We're not going to spend a single moment apart during an anniversary, especially not the big 2-5.

I almost gave this up. I almost made the same mistake that Angela almost made. Don't get me wrong, Frankie is a great girl, and it was tempting to finally have a serious girlfriend again, because I'm getting kinda old to do the dating around thing. But Frankie was too serious, marriage-serious. And I didn't love her. I don't think I could ever love her.

It wasn't like with Gina. I could kid around with Frankie, and she definitely didn't mind me being in her kitchen. But love?

Look, OK, I love Angela. I admitted that to the kids. She's family, like they are. Frankie isn't family. She's not part of my life like Angela is. Maybe she could've been, but I'd have had to give up Angela.

I admitted it to Angela, too, sort of. We agreed we have feelings. Mona was pressuring me to admit more. But I couldn't make the big leap, and I think Angela was sort of relieved I didn't.

That first night that she called my name in her sleep, hell, I was flattered. I'd just come back with a midnight snack and I heard Ingrid! Ingrid, in the house, upstairs, in Angela's bedroom. But she was calling for Tony, not Anthony. Except in an Ingridy voice.

And I thought, Hell, it ain't like I never dream about her! Both of them, Angela and Ingrid. Separately I mean. I didn't plan to embarrass her or confront her. You can't help what you dream.

It was the second night that was the problem. I wasn't the only one who heard her. Not just the kids, but Mona, who was sleeping over. And this time Angela said she loves Tony. Well, I wouldn't judge her for that, considering my little appendix slip. But she was embarrassed about it.

I was afraid she wouldn't want to do our big anniversary, and I was really looking forward to it. So I decided to go out on a limb, suggest a camping trip for this year. Back to basics, at the Rock. She loved the idea.

So I "took her to the train station," meaning the parking spot closest to the woods where the Rock sits. And we lugged everything through the forest to the clearing. And now we've got the tent set up, and we're sitting roasting weenies as the tape plays "Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah." OK, not that romantic, but it was a hit in that golden summer when this bashful blonde first strolled into my life.

We catch up on Ingrid and Anthony's lives (she's got tenure, he's got a new sous chef), and reminisce about camp.

Then she suddenly turns off the tape player and says, "Uh, Anthony, you don't think kids still meet up at the Rock, do you?"

"I doubt it. The dates by the names are pretty old. Nothing since the mid '70s."

"Maybe '80s boys aren't as romantic as you were."

"Yeah, or they're not as good at carving."

She laughs.

"I'm serious." I hold up my roasting stick. "Look at the whittling job I did on that!"

"Very impressive."

"Thanks."

"But what I really meant was, well, how much privacy do you think we'll have here? I mean, we're probably not even legally camping."

"This is what happens when you go out with one of those forbidden, illicit boys from the Y Camp."

"Ton—Anthony."

"Look, Ang—Ingrid. I kinda doubt we're the first people to spend a night here. I mean, that is Makeout Rock over there."

"Kissing Rock!"
"Yeah, OK, whatever."

"I just don't want our anniversary to be spoiled with interruptions. Particularly by the local police."

"Well, don't give them your real name."

"Cute."

"Are you the same Ingrid who last year got turned on by the idea of being caught?"

"That was different, Anthony. I knew we wouldn't be."

"So what are you sayin'? You want to leave?"

"No, of course not."

"Well, good."

"I'm just a little nervous about this."

"Well, eat your weenie and relax." Then I blush. "I didn't mean—"

"Yum yum!" she says super cheerfully, like she's in a '60s commercial, for Dr. Pepper or somethin'.

After the weenie roast, we have marshmallows for dessert. It makes our kisses sticky but extra sweet.

And then I put the tape player back on and we dance. Not grinding, not dirty, but slow and close. It feels so good to have her in my arms like this.

Ruby and the Romantics sing about "My Summer Love." This isn't one of those songs you hear all the time on soundtracks. It's just a sweet, simple song.

Is Angela my summer love? Is Ingrid?

And then it's "So Much in Love" by The Tymes. I didn't plan this playlist as carefully as the one for our "prom." I wonder if I should explain. But then I realize that Anthony wouldn't waste tonight in worrying. He would just be glad to be with Ingrid. Glad to be dancing and kissing with Ingrid.

After awhile, we seem to be doing more kissing than dancing. And neither of us minds when a song that was already a golden oldie in '63 comes along, "I Only Have Eyes for You" by the Flamingos. And I really don't know if the stars are out tonight or if it's cloudy or bright.

Next thing I know, she's got me backed against the Rock. Twenty-five years ago, the Rock was just the landmark, not furniture. But I lean back as she nuzzles my neck and says, "Happy Anniversary, Anthony."
"Happy Anniversary, Ingrid," I gasp, as she unbuttons my shirt. She doesn't take it off though, which is good because I don't want the abrasions. But I take hers off and then her bra, needing to see her alabaster skin shine in the moonlight.

"Love Is Strange" begins as Ingrid undoes my belt.

"Uh, Ingrid, condoms?" I remind her. I don't want to have to be the sensible one.

"I've got it covered," she says, taking one out of the pocket of her shorts.
"What brand is that?"

"It's an imported brand. Flavored."

"Flavored?! You don't mean—"

"Yes, Anthony, I do."

After that, well, we let Mickey and Sylvia do the talking….

"Sylvia."
"Yes, Mickey."
"How do you call your lover boy?"
"Come here, Lover Boy!"
"And if he doesn't answer?"
"Oh, Lover Boy!"
"And if he still doesn't answer?"

"I simply say, 'Baby, oh, Baby, my sweet baby, you're the one. Baby, oh, Baby, my sweet baby, you're the one.' "

She stops before I come! "An-gel—Ing-rid!"

"My knees are getting sore."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Baby! Come up here! What were you thinkin'? I mean that was great, but you could've done it someplace more comfortable." For both of us.

"I know, but I just really wanted to right now."

I grin. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"So, uh, did you bring more condoms like that?"

"Let me check my pockets. Hm, no, this is just a plain old garden-variety condom."

"Now what are we going to do with that?"

I'm not making this up, the next song is "Fingertips, Part Two," which you have to be two golden oldies like us to know the title of because it's not like Little Stevie sings the word "fingertips."

Our fingers dance as I ease down her shorts and panties (green this time!) and she gets the fresh condom on me. And then we do the dirtiest and the oldest dance there is.

"And everybody had a good time." We swing that song! Only, well, even with its false ending, it's too short. In fact, the tape runs out by the time we're both weak in the knees and we drop down to the ground and I keep making love to Ingrid. With my fingertips and everything else I've got.

"Ton—Anthony, it's not very comfortable."

"Sorry, Baby." I tear off my shirt and slide it under her sweet tush.

But after a few minutes she rolls me over, and I'm the one lying on twigs and rocks. "Hey, Ingrid, I admire your passion but—"

"Sorry, Anthony," she gasps and then she slides my shirt under me. And she rocks herself on me, wild woman that she is. I just lie back and enjoy the show. Well, OK, I tweak her nipples and stroke her wild blonde hair. And give her some teasing thrusts every now and then, but it's nice to let her let herself go. After all, if you only get two full days of Ingrid a year, you're gonna savor them, right?

OK, so it's not the most comfortable place I've ever had sex, but it is nice out here, with the stars and the moon and the lake and the—the rain.

"Um, Ingrid, that isn't you, is it? The raindrops?"

"I don't think so because I felt one, too."

"We better head for shelter."

"Well, it's not a heavy storm, like three years ago."

"Well, let's at least save the radio."

"Good idea."

She climbs off me and goes to the radio. I enjoy the view from behind. You gotta remember, the few times I've seen Angela, or Ingrid, naked, it's mostly been from the front.

"You have a great a—tush, Ingrid."

"Thank you, Anthony. So do you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

She puts the tape player/radio in the tent and then starts to stroll back to me, and the front view remains amazing. I hope we'll continue where we left off, or maybe I'll get on top so we can finish. Or some more vertical sex would be good, too.

But then there's a clap of thunder. We both look up.

"You think God is telling us something?" All those years of Catholic school left their mark.
"Yes, I think he's telling you to get in the two-man—I mean two-person tent."

"Thanks, God!"

I scramble to my feet, grab our clothes off the ground (hey, at least the grass stains won't show on Ingrid's panties), and crawl into the tent after her.

I slept in here by myself during my billboard fundraiser. I called Angela to say goodnight though, because it wouldn't have felt right not to say all the things I say to her almost every night. And then the next night she joined me, completely platonically, well, except for some snuggling, but that was in our clothes.

The tent blew away while she was up there, but we shared the sleeping bag. This time I made sure to secure the tent, so it wouldn't get blown across the lake or something. And this time we take off what's left of our clothes before climbing into the sleeping bag. Even with the storm starting, I think we'll be plenty warm enough.

It's very snug in there, but I wish it was snugger. I want to be as close as possible to Ingrid. And my poor penis, which was standing there in the rain, wants to go somewhere warm, although not dry.

I slide into her as we lay side by side. No one's on top for now. It's like a sex-cuddle, our arms wrapped around each other, her legs wrapped around mine. Sometimes we kiss and sometimes we just gaze into each other's eyes. Time moves slowly, like two years ago when we had what she later called "dream sex." But this is different. It's not about drifting lazily. It's about burrowing into her, digging and digging, but slowly.

The rain is pouring, like it did that night in the motel. And then she rolls onto me and rains on me. And I want to roll her over and rain into her, but of course we can't because I slept with Frankie and I have to wear a condom.

It's almost enough for me to make Tony go celibate, so that Anthony can more fully enjoy Ingrid. But I'm not ready for that kind of kind of sacrifice, not for only two days a year with Ingrid.

When I roll on top, she is my earth, just like she was my sky outside. Jesus, the way this weekend is going, I'm going to end up a Pagan! Uh, sorry, Jesus. No offense.

But, yeah, she's my water and my fire, too, and I am drowning and burning in her.

What the hell is wrong with me? Why do I feel like this? What's happening to me? I'm losing control, I'm losing my mind, I'm—

"Come, Anthony! Come, come, come!"

She may not be my boss at the moment, but I do exactly what she says. And just like when I kissed her three years ago, I fall into her, like gravity. Because she is a force, too, a force of nature.