We moved quickly through the first and then the less shrill, less desperate second. That, however, was nothing new: for me the first time with any woman has inevitably been more to prove it's actually happening than to enjoy. Once you've passed that barrier, you become human and fallible and tender again.

A street lamp threw its harsh, cheap light across the bed. India came back into the room holding two small glasses of the wine I had bought that afternoon. She was still naked, and when she sat down next to me on the edge of the bed, the light moved up her side and stopped just below her breasts.

"It's very cold. I took a big sip in the kitchen and it gave me one of those ice-cream headaches." She handed me one, and after I sat up, we touched glasses in a quiet, unspoken toast.

"Aren't you cold?"

"No, I'm fine."

"That's right – neither of you – oops." I was so embarrassed I closed my eyes. The last thing I wanted was to bring Paul into the room.

"Joey, it's okay. He's not here." She drank her wine and looked out the window. "I'm still glad we did it, and that's supposed to be the big test, isn't it? I mean, after you've zipped through the passion and are back where you started? I wanted you, it happened, and now we're here and still happy, right? I don't want to think about anything else. I have to tell you something even though it doesn't mean a thing. I've never done this with anyone since Paul, okay? It doesn't matter, but I wanted you to know."

She reached out and ran her still-warm palm down my chest. She caught the top of the blanket with her fingers and pulled it down: past my stomach, past my penis, which was blooming again like an African violet. She straddled me and, licking her fingertips, reached down and spread the wetness over the head. Then she took hold of it, strongly – like a gun – and slid it into her. Halfway there she stopped, and I was afraid it had hurt her, but I saw she was only trying to hold the moment until she was ready to own it again.

One day in bed we had a conversation about my "type" of woman.

"I bet you I'm not your kind, am I?"

"What do you mean?" I pulled the pillow under my head.

"I mean, I'm not your type of girl. Woman."

"India, you must be or else we wouldn't be here, would we?" I patted the bed between us.

"Oh, yeah, sure, I'm good-looking and all, but I'm not your kind of girl. No, no, you don't have to say anything. Sssh, wait a minute – let me try and guess."

"India –"

"No, shut up. I want to try this. Knowing you . . . you probably like big blondes or redheads with tiny fannies and big boobs."

"Wrong! Don't be so smirky, smart aleck. I do like blondes, but I've never been a big-breast man. If you really want to know the truth, I like beautiful legs. You have beautiful legs, you know."

"Yeah, they're okay. Are you sure about that breast thing? I would've sworn you were a tight-sweater lad."

"Nope, I like long sleek legs. Most of all, I'm crazy for a woman who's at ease with her looks, if you know what I mean. She doesn't wear much makeup because it doesn't mean anything to her. If she's attractive she knows it, and that's enough. She doesn't feel the need to show off what she's got."

"And she bakes her own bread, believes in natural childbirth, and eats three bowls of granola a day."

"India, you asked. You're making me sound stupid."

"Sorry." She slid over in bed and put one of those long legs over mine. "Besides looks, what else do you like about me?"

She was serious, so I answered seriously. "You're unpredictable. You're good-looking too, but behind those looks are all these different women, and I like that very much. Everyone has different qualities if they're at all interesting, but in your case it's as if there's no one India Tate. I think it's amazing. When I'm with you, I feel as if I'm with ten women."

She tickled me. "Sometimes you get so serious, Joey. You look as if I just asked you a question in biochemistry. Come over here and give me a big smooch."

I did, and we lay quietly in each other's arms.

"Can I tell you something crazy, India? Part of me always looks forward to seeing Paul. Is that nuts?"

She kissed my forehead. "Not at all. He's your friend. Why shouldn't you like seeing him? I think it's nice."

"Yes, but it's like that old story about why murderers put out their victims' eyes after they've killed them."

She pushed me away, and her voice was testy. "What are you talking about?"

"You see, there's this old superstition that the last thing a dead person sees is the guy who's done him in, if he was killed from in front, see? So some people used to think that since that was so, the image would register on the dead man's eyeballs like a photograph. Look at the guy's eyes and you'll see who did it." I stopped and tried to smile at her; only it turned out to be a forlorn, useless smile. "I keep thinking that one day Paul is going to look in my eyes and see you there."

"You're saying I murdered you?" Her face showed nothing: it was only pale and delicate. Her voice was as distant as the moon. I wanted to touch her, but I didn't.

"No, India, that's not what I'm saying at all."

In those first days of our affair, I kept watching her as intently when we made love as a prospector looking at a geiger counter, but there was nothing in her expression I hadn't already seen. I think I was hoping that, in the midst of that full but simple passion that took place every time we pulled down the sheets, there would be a hint or a clue as to what was happening between her and Paul. And I didn't even know what I was hoping for. Did I want everything to be the way it had always been? Or did I secretly, selfishly, wish she was disenchanted with her husband and would end up wanting me?

How long would it be before he found out? When it came to trysts, rendezvous, and love messages written in invisible ink, I wasn't very subtle or capable. It had happened once or twice in the past. My way of dealing with it then had been to let the woman decide when and where and how; I would go along with it no matter how urgently I felt I needed to be with her. As far as that was concerned, I knew my limits and knew if I ever tried to run the affair I'd botch everything in two seconds flat.

Paul was good old Paul and treated me no differently. India was the same too; only once in a while she would wink or give my foot a tiny tap under the table. I was the only one who was different; I was "on" every time we were together. But they both affected not to notice.

In the meantime, India continued to come over, and we had our slivers of time when the world was only as big as my bed. When she was there I tried to put everything out of my mind and seize the part of the day she could give me. It was not a difficult time either, but I was often surprised by how exhausted I was at night. I would often fall into bed with a hunger for sleep I'd never known before. One day, when I asked India if the same thing had been happening to her, she was already asleep on my arm; it was only ten o'clock in the morning.

Around the beginning of November, guilt began to whistle a familiar tune. Hard as I tried, I couldn't stop it. I knew a great part stemmed from my ambivalent feelings toward India. Did I love her? No, I didn't. When we made love she often said things like "Love-yes! Love-oh!" and even then I felt uncomfortable, because I knew I didn't love her. As far as I was concerned that was all right, because I cared for her, wanted her, and needed her in many different, ever-increasing ways. I had long ago given up on the possibility of finding someone I could love totally and endlessly. Sometimes I tried to convince myself that what I felt for India was the only kind of love Joseph Lennox could ever feel, but I knew I was lying. But what more did I want? What ingredient was missing? I had no idea, except that where there should have been magic and blue sparks, there was "only" great sleight-of-hand or a brilliant trick I loved but knew was done with little hidden mirrors.