The Interest

By the third week the household had stopped whispering, which was worse.

Livia took her wine in the garden now, where the fig trees made a room without walls. He came when she sent for him and sometimes when she didn’t, and she let both stand.

“You’re thinking about him,” he said. Not a question.

“I’m thinking about what he’d do if he knew.”

“And?”

“And I find I would like to give him something to know.”

He was close enough that she could feel the heat of the day still caught in him, sand and sun. He did not touch her. That was the game, and they both knew the rules: she asked, or nothing happened.

---

She asked.