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These rules are not to be bent, twisted or broken.

"Seemed like you got along," Mitchell said.

"You know how you sometimes meet someone and feel a connection?"

"I said so before. My Chinese student."

"Okay."

"I do understand. Once while traveling in France, alone, when I was young, I met a woman on a train. We started talking and continued until three o'clock in the morning. She invited me to her place, top floor, really a garret, romantic. It even had a skylight, and I think moon beams were coming through it. Or could that have been candlelight? That was a while ago. I had nowhere else to stay, planned to get a hotel room. She spared me the trouble. A long time ago."

"When you were young."

"Different time."

"And place."

"It wasn't strange for that traveler to bring me back to her apartment. Felt natural."

"But exciting."

"Of course."

"Romantic, you said."

"Neither of us were married."

"That French guy didn't invite you to his place, so far as I know. Did he?"

"He said it's falling apart."

"So that came up?"

"I don't remember how."

"Why doesn't he fix the apartment? Or does he thrive in a mess?He's an artist, you said."

Mitchell looked disdainful.

"He doesn't want to. He plans to move. It's hopeless, he says."

"You see, that's the way with French artists. They come to this city that's rundown compared to theirs in search of 'authentic experience.' They even have a name for it: nostalgia for the mud. 'Nostalgie de la boue.'"

"Blablabla bla blu e." I imitated the language that made no sense to my ear. For Mitchell's sake.

Did he resent Marcel for connecting with me as a fellow artist or for his youth?

"We had a good time in France, didn't we?"

We married in a civil service three months before my visa expired. The trip was a belated honeymoon.

Mitchell had started strumming between my legs.

"That boat ride." He smiled at the memory.

"It rocked. Do you remember? And the ice cream melting?"

The conversation struck me as unnecessary and even slightly ridiculous now. Was it his way of claiming his rights as my husband, saying in effect, "I can make you talk and listen and that French guy can't"? His fingers were wet against my thighs and brought a scent up when he touched my face and we kissed.

One night, shortly before our separation, Mitchell had said, "I'm not doing this for the future. I'm doing it for right now." He'd gone down on me then.

That would make less noise. We'd been joking about Will in the living room, concern he'd hear us.

Mitchell wasn't shy after our first night, when he knew I welcomed him as more than a friend. He stopped holding back. At an outdoor rock concert the next weekend he put his head between my legs again, maybe because it was more discreet in public than intercourse, or maybe just because he wanted to. We'd covered ourselves with a blanket, but people nearby could have guessed what was happening. Mitchell counted on the fact they'd be looking not at us but at the musicians on stage and of course listening to them. Or else the possibility of being seen didn't bother him. My feet and more stuck out of the blue-grey military-style blanket. Mitchell had been bold. My shock entertained him. And those combined forces, my modesty and his fondness for the outrageous fueled our love.

I guess he thought I'd like music festivals, jumbling me with others my age. We didn't know each other well yet.

I did get loud then. "Oh! Oh! Oh!"

Now our feet twined together.

"You feeling that?"

My toes answered.

"Eels."

Not like that at all.

"And the other thing?"

"Another? I can't see."

"Have to use touch." On his urging, I moved my hand under the sheet, first to his stomach.

It darted to a shape in the shadow. A robust one.

"Slippery."

But not as big as an eel.

"Slippery you wanna feel?" Mitchell opened my legs and, without asking if I wanted him to or not, lifted my hand and brought it between them.

I called out as my own fingers plunged.

Mitchell took my hand away and replaced it with his own.

His plunged for a lon

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