If Ollie was interested before that lunch, she was smitten after. They parted at 1 p.m. with a pair of reciprocal smiles and flirtatious looks, but neither suggested anything then. Blake was gratified and not completely surprised when Olivia stopped on her way home. After a few comments, he collected his stuff and accompanied her.

She was a little embarrassed on the train with him. She could see their reflections in the curved plexiglass windows as they stood side by side with one hand each on the overhead railing. He looked so obviously…”street” was the only kind word for it. She saw commuters watch them converse; she had to shrug off her self-consciousness. She was glad to detrain and reach the privacy of the evening neighborhoods.

As soon as they got to her place she showed him the bathroom. “You have to get clean,” she said. She gave him a thick towel, pointed out the soap and shampoo. She brought him a robe that would fit him well enough. She took the clothes he was wearing and everything in his pack, and told him she’d wash them as soon as he was done using the water. She heated up soup and bread.

She was in sweats by the time he joined her. The soup was bubbling and the bread was warm. She turned off the stove and oven and was about to open a bottle of white wine when Blake walked to her, pink-tan and slightly damp, and took her firmly in his arms. His long hair was towel-dried and plastered a bit against his right cheek. His face lowered to hers and he gently took her lips into his mouth. He said “Ollie.”

She stiffened and melted at the same time.

Food cooled. Wine went unopened.

It wasn’t like her, to have sex so soon. “Not like Olivia, maybe,” said Blake with a post-coital smile, “but you’re Ollie. And I’m Blake. Hey: don’t get me wrong. I’ve never done anything like this before either.” He turned on the burner to reheat their soup. He pulled the robe around himself and tightened the terrycloth sash. They settled into their meal like a couple, but the evening seemed surreal to both of them.

In the middle of that night she went to the bathroom. The rats or mice or squirrels, whatever they were, were scrabbling in the attic again. They were so loud that she turned on the light. And screamed. Olivia wasn’t a girly-girl. She was not squeamish. But anyone would freak at the sight of that rat face, poking through a just-chewed hole in her bathroom ceiling.

Blake came running. Neither of them know exactly how he managed to garrote the beast, but he took care of it and disposed of the body.

They returned to her bed and reached for one another. The first time had been explosive for him and flattering/overwhelming for her. This time it was more mutual and less definitive. Followed by cuddles till they began to stick together: then Ollie edged away from him and into dream.

They didn’t speak about it, but Blake didn’t leave. Like a Jamaican man he moved in on the woman and the woman’s place, and without discussing anything they knew the arrangement was at her sufferance. It wasn’t until Ollie woke up six weeks later, with Blake’s morning-firm penis in her hand, that she recognized a relationship. Realized it would no longer be simple to discard him, if she wanted to discard him. Wondered if she really wanted him.

It never would have happened if she hadn’t kicked over his change cup. It probably wouldn’t have progressed without a chest-high flight of pigeons. It very well may not last. Ollie squeezed his organ gently and slipped out of bed. She watched small butterflies mate tumbling in the air outside her apartment window, while she poured orange juice into a jelly glass and wondered how she felt.