You and I both know that instead of house-sitting for you, I should really have left with you this morning on vacation, occupying the next airplane seat over as you head off to dig the gorgeous Oregon coast. But it turned out I was scheduled to attend a dissertation defense smack in the middle of the week you had chosen, and you were unable to alter your plane tickets.

I would have been glad to see the dunes again. Unlike you, however, I’ve been there before. Mostly what I regret is our not being able to screw our asses off in a hotel room night after night. Still, there will be plenty of time for that sort of thing when you’re home again. And since I, as a house-sitter, am a freebie, there will be that much more mad money in your cookie jar for champagne, bubble-bath, and lingerie. I would offer to chip in for these, had you not already insisted that the weekend of your return be entirely your treat. Meanwhile I’m biding my time, looking forward to picking you up at the airport on Saturday and anticipating the events that will inevitably follow.

Today is Monday. We had a first-class farewell fuck yesterday evening after dinner; but since I had an early meeting today, and you had an even earlier flight, it was logical that I decided to spend the night at my place, near the university, while you opted to stay put and pack. We live forty-five minutes apart—though we plan to do something about that soon—and since you’re on the same side of the city as the airport, you were able to arrange to have a neighbor take you there this morning, while I got ready for my appointment on campus.

So I haven’t seen you since about 9:00 p.m last night, when I kissed you goodbye in the master bathroom, after you’d treated me to the pleasure of watching your habitual, post-lovemaking piss. When you stood up from the commode to receive my kiss, your slight black panties were still at your ankles. They usually hug your crotch for only the briefest of intervals between fucking and peeing, and I sometimes wonder why you even bother to slip them on after sex. The erotic music of your private waterfall, which had concluded mere seconds earlier, was still resonating in my ears as we kissed.

It was the image of you smiling after me, your panties seductively at your ankles, that I kept with me on the long drive home. It was a smile full of promise, with a hint of mischief that I couldn’t, for the moment, quite place. An hour later, when I got into my bed and you floated into my mind’s eye, the vision of you that I saw still hadn’t stepped out of the panties—or pulled them back up. I shot hot love all over myself while nurturing that vision. Then I phoned to tell you I’d done so.

Now that it’s afternoon, I’m free from further obligations at the university until Wednesday. It seems silly to have all this free time and not be off on vacation with you, but that’s the way it goes.

Having finished my lunch, I’ve decided to get an early start on the light duties at your house. A lot of people would have just let their homes remain empty for a week . . . but you admit that you’re neurotic where your houseplants are concerned. You specifically asked me to attend to them each and every day—including today, since your flight was so early. Because your place is so far out of my way, you urged me to make myself completely at home for lounging and cooking and working. You told me I should even crash in your bed, if I don’t want to drive back and forth unnecessarily. I am, after all, no stranger to your bed.

The word-processed note attached to the fridge reiterates, in compelling detail, everything you’ve already told me about the plants, the mail, and the blinds (you’ve always claimed that your watercolors need to be protected from natural light at certain times of day). I smile at your endearing compulsiveness as I skim the redundant text. Then a hastily-scrawled postscript catches my attention:

Ran out of time and didn’t change sheets. Clean ones in linen closet.

I shrug and head for the watering-can. I am about to fill it, when it dawns on me that there is something strange about your postscript regarding the sheets. You don’t need to change the sheets for me—the sheets your frenzied, bouncing, orgasmic body pinned me to less than twenty-four hours ago. You know this, and you know that I know this. Immediately, an explanation occurs to me. You are deliberately, slyly drawing my attention to the unchanged sheets, knowing that I will know why you are doing so. My hand trembles as I set down the watering-can.