They talked about it while soaking in an unusually deep red tub at his rented house. How the constellations had gone out of their way to align, so that their paths converged for a time in the redwoods, in a shingled cottage above the creek. It was all so perfectly temporary. He had easier hours at work. She, the willingness and the freedom at midday. Even some nights. Statistically improbable that their bodies fit together the way they did. And that the words he whispered fit so seamlessly inside her ear. But — isn’t it written in the holy books? — the gods do not like to dole out too much honey, so as not to saturate the palate. Or the soul, which must be allowed its hungers. And this was honey by the spoonful: He played guitar and sang for her while she soaped her limbs. He peeled off her robe with his teeth while she read him his favorite poems by the fire’s last flame. Perhaps it is a mercy to have limits. Isn’t unimpeded pleasure almost unbearable? And isn’t there always someone, just outside the frame, who has to pay? The gods allow us only a moment of indulgence, a little taste, right before, in their infinite and merciless wisdom, they take it back.