Elizabeth regretted immediately that they had done it before nightfall. It should have been a culmination, taking place at the last possible minute of their time together. How would they now spend the remaining hours? She prayed he wouldn’t get up and leave. She could almost hear the plea on her lips, for him to stay, to be kind to her, but she held it in. She ran her hand across his chest, the faded ink of his tattoo. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt her whole life hung on what the next utterance of a man might be. She had been with Francis for five years, had never been unfaithful, never considered being unfaithful, never had a real opportunity to be unfaithful. She could see how this event now put her beyond the pale, but it also seemed to put her into the stream of life itself, instead of beside it.

“Will you spend the rest of the day with me?” he said to her, his chest moving under her hand, and she nearly wept with relief.