1973

As David unbuttoned her blouse in the studio apartment on West 12th Maya wondered if they’d waited too long. They’d waited in high school, jammed into a broom closet, kisses sucking the ammonia-scented air. They’d waited on a bench on a traffic island on Queens Boulevard, jeans unzipped, hands skimming hair and flesh. They’d waited rolled in a blanket in Central Park during rained-out performances of Henry V. When a cop said, “Move it, kids,” they moved.

At universities in different cities, they waited too. Could semen on a girl’s thigh make her pregnant? Did the air kill it or what? Once in a borrowed apartment in Philadelphia he unwrapped a condom and filled it with water, checking for leaks. By then they were laughing too hard and went out for a pint of rum raisin ice cream instead. Afterwards, they slept so soundly he almost missed his bus to Ithaca.

Now, on West 12th Street, as he moved his lips to her breast, as she felt his tongue begin the slow circling that once had driven her wild, she heard everything—the faucet drip; the shifting of the unwashed dishes from their dinner; the toilet refilling. They were free to take as long as they wished; to be completely naked; to keep the lights on or off; to do it on the shag rug or the corduroy sofa bed.

Later, she would remember that moment when, imperceptibly, she pulled back.

How could she tell him they’d waited too long?