Quentin tried three fabric stores before he found it—netting for Sylvia. He bought the last of the last bolt, eight yards of fine black mesh. Now Sylvia would be safe. Safe from those cicadas. He hurried home to MaryAnne.

Sylvia was Quentin’s and MaryAnne’s young ornamental pear tree. They’d put her in just last spring, and they’d named her after the young proprietress of the coffee shop they liked to go to. Last summer they’d watered her for seven and a half minutes every other day, religiously following the instructions of the woman at the nursery. Sylvia was thriving. She was beautiful. Her leaves this year were juicy green with some of them showing a faint reddish fringe. A blush, MaryAnne had said. No blossoms, though. The woman at the nursery had informed them that some people didn’t like the odor of the blossoms. “Why not?” MaryAnne had asked. The nursery woman, after a moment’s hesitation and an offhand gesture, told them that some people thought the blossoms smelled like semen. “Oh,” MaryAnne said, a faint blush showing at her throat. But on the car ride home, she told Quentin she liked the smell of semen. “Especially your semen,” she added. Quentin said, “Oh, does my semen smell better than other guys’?” MaryAnne blushed again, but dipped to his lap, saying, “Let’s see.” Now, remembering that lovely adventure, Quentin pulled into the driveway. He shut off the engine and listened, his hard-on throbbing gently in his underwear. Yes, the cicadas were starting to sing.

“Did you get it?” MaryAnne asked as soon as Quentin was inside the house.

Beaming, he showed her the oversized sack. “You bet your booty.”

“That’s great!” MaryAnne said, watching Quentin roll the fine mesh fabric out across the living room floor. “Now Sylvia’s gonna have a black fishnet bra and panties to match. You get the duct tape, I’ll get the scissors.”

“Well, not exactly fishnet,” Quentin said. “Fishnet is coarser.”

“Oh?” MaryAnne said. “You have experience with fishnet?”

“Well, I ... um ... no,” Quentin admitted. “Maybe in my imagination. “How come you don’t have any fishnet stockings?”

“I don’t know,” MaryAnne said. “I guess I’m just not a fishnet stockings sort of girl. Are you a fishnet stockings sort of guy?”

“I might be,” Quentin said. “It might be fun to find out.”

Quentin and MaryAnne looked at each other.

“How are we gonna work this?” MaryAnne wanted to know.

“First thing, we need to take off our clothes,” Quentin said.

“Everything?”

“Everything,” Quentin confirmed.

“Oh, goodie,” MaryAnne said.

Solemnly they helped each other undress. Then Quentin arranged MaryAnne crosswise upon the netting about a yard from one end. Quentin made sure MaryAnne’s head was above the netting’s width, and he wrapped the netting end over her. Then he lay down next to her on the inside. “Now roll over me,” he said.

“I can’t,” MaryAnne replied.

“I’ll help you get started.”

Quentin pulled MaryAnne on top of him, tucked his arms in, and together he and MaryAnne rolled themselves across the living room floor, five, six, seven rolls, wrapping themselves snugly in the black netting, facing each other, a single layer of the fabric between them.

“Now what?” MaryAnne said.

“Now we know what Sylvia’s going to feel like when we put her in her cocoon,” Quentin explained.

“Cozy and snug,” MaryAnne said.

“Cozy and snug and safe from the cicadas,” Quentin said.

MaryAnne nodded, her face right up against Quentin’s. Their noses were almost touching. She said, “I wonder if this isn’t more how the cicadas feel living underground for seventeen years.” She laughed.

“That tickles,” Quentin said. “Laugh again. It felt good.”

“I can’t laugh on command,” MaryAnne said. But something about her statement struck her as funny, and she laughed again. “You’re right. It does feel good. Now you laugh.”

“Ha, ha, ha,” Quentin said.

“That’s not real laughing,” MaryAnne said. “But do it again.”

“Ha, ha, ha.”

“Do it some more.”

“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.” And then he started laughing for real, hearty chuckles which shook themselves against MaryAnne’s mesh-netted body.

“You know what?” MaryAnne asked.

“What?”

“I’m starting to get a little excited.”

“Me, too,” Quentin said.

“I wish you could be in me,” MaryAnne said.

“Me, too,” Quentin said.

“How come you didn’t wrap us together?”

“I don’t know. I wish I would have.”

“I can feel your prick,” MaryAnne said. “I can feel your prick up along my belly to just under my belly button.”