PART 1 CHAPTER

16

W HEN THEY ARE LEAST AWARE THAT ANYONE SEES — IN BED, THE TUB , the bathroom,

strolling the yard, preparing and eating food—I admit to the guilty pleasure of spying on the

man and woman in my house. At the same time, my conscience torments¹ me. It’s just that I’m

so in need of the company of anyone other than myself that I can’t resist. I was raised to be

modest, and Ellen always dowsed the light before we made love regardless of my desire to see

her supple² body. But I can’t help myself now.

These people are wanton in their intimate moments. They stride about the bedroom naked

and sleep without any nightclothes. Although I’m content with the memory of being enclosed in

Ellen’s primordial³ warmth, I wish we’d allowed ourselves this couple’s freedom. And these

days, vicarious pleasure is the only kind I know.

Now in the empty house, mine once again without the weekend people, I recall my times

with Ellen. All the touching⁴, until only awareness⁵ pulsated—with no word for my wife, no name

for myself. There were no labels, no analysis of what she’d said to me earlier in the day, no

judgments⁶ about needs met, or not.

By my reckoning, it has been ninety-two years since anyone has spoken to me. Occasionally,

the man or woman will step into my space close enough to brush my arm or face. Registering

only a puzzling chill, they move away. In my solitude⁷, I’ve considered how people briefly⁸ move

against, or brush by, one another the way cattle in fields establish connections through touch—

and how we are ignorant that this habit keeps us grounded. That is, until those with whom we

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