Riva and I are sitting on a loveseat in our neighbors’ house—the Graysons, Bob and Beverly, who are an older couple, married now for twenty-five years. They’re having an anniversary party. We barely know them—we barely know anyone at this party, for we’ve lived in our new house only a few weeks.

The party has been winding down for a while; earlier there had been a barbecue in the Graysons’ backyard with steaks and homemade potato salad and a bean salad that was sharp with vinegar, which I thought collided a little with the ice-cold beer. Now the food is gone and the backyard abandoned and the last of the guests, the stragglers, are inside.

I’m not sure why Riva and I haven’t set off for our own home, two doors down. Partly, I suppose, it’s the opportunity to learn about our new neighbors; partly it’s inertia; and partly it’s wishing not to offend the neighbors by leaving in the middle of their stories of how they met. Mostly, though, it’s the anticipatory delight of delaying that moment when we’ll step through our own door to fully embrace, for we’d been teasing each other all afternoon and all evening—a meaningful glance here, a surreptitious touch there—and there and there and there. Our hostess, Beverly Grayson, who seems to be a mirthful, kind lady, has come over to the loveseat to perch on the arm. “So, tell me, you two youngsters, how did you meet?”

“At college,” I tell her. Riva’s hand finds mine. “A photography class.”

It was my freshman year. Riva was a year ahead. I’d noticed her right away—that mop of fiery red hair—I couldn’t keep my eyes off those wild, cascading ringlets. But I was much too shy to approach her. I’d had no experience with girls, for the whole of my childhood I’d lived far from the nearest town, and my mother believed fervently in home-schooling. When it came to girls, especially girls I was attracted to, not that I had much opportunity to meet girls (except for fictional girls and girls in my imagination, for my mother didn’t believe in movies or television or organized religion), I didn’t know what to do; I was afraid a girl would take anything more than a shy smile as an untoward advance. But Riva noticed my shy smile, and she decided, lucky for me, to take things into her own hands. Some two weeks into the fall term, as we were leaving Professor Lelchuk’s classroom, Riva asked me if I had any ideas for the course’s first picture assignment: nature. “Not really,” I told her. But then she wiped a red curl away from her eyes, and that made me think of something. “There’s this park outside of town along the old highway,” I told her. “The leaves are starting to turn. My mom and I stopped there the day she dropped me off here. It’s really pretty. I think there’s a bike trail.”

“That sounds neat,” Riva said. “You mind if I tag along? I won’t get in your way.”

“Actually,” I told her, “I’m not sure if I can get there. It’s a few miles out, so you’d need a car or a bike or something. I don’t have a car or a bike.”

“I have a bike,” Riva said. “And I bet I could borrow my roommate’s for you.”

So early that Saturday afternoon, an unusually warm, sunny day, we pedaled off for the park, our cameras and camera bags slung over our shoulders. “You don’t mind riding a girl’s bike?” Riva asked me. We were side by side on the broken down, rural highway a few miles from campus.

“Girl’s bike?” I said, feigning surprise. “I really hadn’t noticed.”

Riva looked at me, a big grin on her face. “Liar,” she said, “I know you notice everything.”

“Oh, you noticed that about me?” I said.

Riva laughed. She had the loveliest laugh. It almost made me lose control. The bike wobbled and ran off the pavement into a patch of burrs and wildflowers. For an instant it occurred to me to stop and take a picture of this roadside patch where I’d almost fallen, but I shoved it out of mind: I didn’t want the bike ride with Riva to end so soon. In truth, I didn’t want it to ever end.

It took almost an hour to get to the park. There was one car in the parking lot. A row of tall trees separated the lot from an ill-tended picnic grove. A man and a woman lay on a blanket, and a little brown dog sat next to them with its tongue out, its front paws guarding a red Frisbee. At the far end of the clearing the trail began. Once upon a time it must have been paved with crushed white gravel, but only a few gray pebbles remained. We bicycled slowly down the path. In a few places the trail was covered with fallen leaves, which made a soft crackling crunch under our tires.

“Nice noise,” Riva said. “How far do we go?”

“All the way,” I blurted. Then I blushed, because I remembered that “all the way” had a sexual meaning.

“Sounds good to me,” Riva said, grinning again. “Last one there’s a rotten egg.” She stood up on her pedals and raced off.

Admiring the jounce and sway of her wild red hair and the pump and push of her trim bottom, I was slow to take off after her. When I finally got up to speed, my camera bag banged uncomfortably against my side. I ignored the bashing for as long as I could, but finally I had to slow down. The trail rose and dipped and curled through the trees, and soon Riva was out of sight. Ignoring the camera’s knock, I sped up again, but I couldn’t catch Riva. Once I thought I glimpsed her, a flash of glinting fire, but I wasn’t sure, and some minutes later, out of breath, I had to slow down. She’d disappeared.

Some minutes later I coasted a downhill bend and there she was, up ahead, sprawled on the grass by the side of the path, her bike on the ground next to her. It looked like she’d crashed. I sped to her side, my heart hammering.

She had her camera out. She was aiming up at the sky.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“This is incredible,” she said.

“What?”

“Look. Look up.”

I looked up. I didn’t see anything, The sky, sure, the cloudless sky. Some trees with golden leaves rustling in the breeze. A hawk circling.

“Oh, yeah,” I said, not sure that I wasn’t missing the essential something.

I took a step back. Maybe my angle was wrong. Though I wanted to lie down next to her, I took another step back. I wanted to take out my camera and take a picture of her lying there, aiming her camera up at the sky, or whatever she was seeing up there. Maybe she was seeing God. I looked up again, through the leaves.

“I hope these babies come out,” Riva said. She’d scrambled to her feet. I regretted that I hadn’t lain down next to her on the grass by the side of the trail.

“I guess we should be heading back,” Riva said. She seemed a little sad. Maybe my response to her enthusiasm had been inadequate. I tried to think of something to say, but I couldn’t think of anything.

We rode slowly and silently side by side. Eventually we got back to the picnic grove. The man and woman and little brown dog were gone. The parking lot was empty. We still had an hour of biking to get back to campus. I hadn’t taken a single photograph.

“When you were here with your mom did you have a picnic?” Riva asked. She got off her bike to pick up a discarded beer can.

“No,” I said. I feared she thought the beer can was mine.

Riva carried the crumpled can to the wire trash receptacle and dropped it in. The clatter was frail, and then there was silence again. I straddled my bike, waiting for Riva to mount hers. But she was in no hurry.

“It looks like anyone hardly ever comes here,” she said, looking around. “It’s pretty out of the way. How did you happen to find this place?”

“My mom eschews Interstates,” I said.

Riva laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone actually say ‘eschews.’”

“Sorry.”

“Anyway, it’s nice. Would you like to walk for a bit?”

We left our bikes and strolled through the trees.

“How come you didn’t take any pictures?” Riva asked.

I shrugged. “I guess my idea didn’t pan out.”

“What was your idea?”

“You know that rusted old grill? Back at the picnic grove?”

Riva nodded.

I shrugged again. “I thought it would make a good picture.”

“It might,” Riva said. “But I’m not sure how that could be construed as ‘nature.’”

“Construed,” I said. “Rhymes with eschewed.”

Riva laughed. “You got me.” Her red curls glinted in the sun.

“Besides,” I added, “the pictures are supposed to be in black and white. It was the colors that were special. The way the rust was the same color as your ... as the fall leaves. I don’t know how that would come across in black and white.”

“That’s true,” Riva said. “Kind of a peculiar assignment, to do nature in black and white. But if you took a picture of the grill and the dead leaves all around, maybe that would come across.”

“I could try,” I said. I couldn’t keep my eyes from Riva’s wild red hair. I wanted very much to tell her it was her hair that had made me remember the rusted metal grill. But wouldn’t that be insulting? I couldn’t even begin to explain it. It seemed silly and pretentious. I let my eyes drop.