The tall man whose name I’d forgotten
led me down to the Roaring Fork
where he spread out a paisley blanket,
arranging chunks of cheese, baguettes,
a bottle of pale peach rosé.
A raft capsized farther upriver.
The man stood up and ran the other
direction. I waded through cold
water, saw the boaters, safe.
An uphill climb to home, I fell
asleep. Entering the house, the man
undressed, crawled next to me, his body,
a question mark. Waking, I told him
to leave. He stood, pulling on jeans,
walked across the landing just as
my husband climbed the stairs. Witnessing
the man, he turned to go. The stranger
bolted, hailing a cab outside.
My husband at the next-door bar
ordered a Glenfiddich shot.
As I approached, he motioned no.
The house alone kept quiet that night.
He had invited her to lunch
beside the Roaring Fork, and she,
forgetting his history, said yes.
The artist had stretched a bedspread
across grass, now his empty canvas,
placing there Chianti and Brie.
Upriver a raft overturned.
He stood, brushed crumbs off his lap, mumbling,
Against the tree. Bicycle unlocked.
Trying to balance on slick rocks
to see the boaters safe on land,
she waded across slippery river.
Through gorse she climbed. Inside the stone
house she lay down on the floor, slept.
Did she dream or did he trail her
back to the house, undress, then anchor
his weight beside her? She could hear
a door slam shut. Her husband took
the stairs by twos, the dogs at his heels.
It was a summer’s day.
It was cold as winter.
He invited her down to the river,
then pretended they’d never met.
They drank beside the Roaring Fork.
Chilled, she left, without a wrap.
He shadowed her uphill.
She entered the house alone.
She didn’t lock the door.
The door was locked.
On the bedroom floor she slept.
He left an imprint there.
She woke to the slam of a door.
The room was empty.
Under the wing of roof
no one spoke of this again.