Marlowe and I hadn’t properly kissed yet, just the briefest dry brush of lips at the end of our first date, but I was in love with her. I knew she was the one. For our second date we visited the Shaker Exhibition. It seemed appropriate. Marlowe wore no jewelry. She was beautifully simple and straightforward, as perfect as God made her.

Sure enough, the display entranced Marlowe: stern brooms to smooth surfaces, the snug nest of oval boxes, the array of precision handtools. Marlowe beamed with pleasure admiring a tape chair.

She turned to me, eyes agleam. “Wouldn’t it be fun to sit on?”

I scanned the hall. No guard in sight. “Maybe for a quick moment you could.”

“No. I mean naked. Wouldn’t that be... ?”

Then we kissed. A long, sweet, sweeping kiss. I’m sure people stared, but I didn’t care. We kissed again, and hurried to my car, to my apartment, to my bed.

I stroked her back. My fingers worked like light. “Isn’t it ironic that Shakers didn’t believe in sex?”

“Mm. Ironic.”

“I mean their stuff is so sexy. Like you. Naturally beautiful. No jewelry. No tattoos.” My fingers played upon her skin, rested on the perfection of her bottom.

“Oh, but I do,” she said, and her bottom clenched.

“What? Where?”

“A tattoo. Near my most secret spot. A little ladybug. My boyfriend had to hold me apart for the tattoo guy to work. Does it matter?”

I didn’t answer. I gripped her bottom as best I could. Gently I pried the cheeks apart. Nothing. Her skin was pure but for the pretty, star-shaped crinkle.

Marlowe laughed. “Maybe he flew away. Or maybe...”

“What?”

Again and again I’ve tried to find the ladybug. Still no luck. But I’ll keep trying.