Cindy came over to help me paint my new apartment. The city was sweltering. When we pried open the window a cloud of white pigeons whooshed up. “Neat,” Cindy said. “Maybe they’ll come back. You can wake up every morning to cooing.”

We painted for a while. I poured fresh paint into Cindy’s trough. “Yum,” Cindy said. “I just love the fresh creaminess of it.” She dipped her brush in. She worked the brush back and forth against the bare wall. Foop foop. Foop foop. Back and forth. Then up and down. I watched her slender arm, the motion of her wrist, the grip of her fingers on the handle. Foop foop. “This sound really makes me hot,” she said. “Whew.” She set her brush in the tray and in a single motion drew off her jersey. “Catch,” she said, tossing it to me. Ignoring the brush, she picked up the roller, and I thought she would go back to painting, but she didn’t. She brought her fingers up, pinched her nipple. “Do you like the color?” she asked.