Tim and Nan sweated in rumpled sheets, a striped Mexican blanket nailed aslant to the wall behind the bed and dim-lit by an antique lamp. Nan had bought the lamp at sunny Sunday morning garage sale, paid under her umbrella and walked it home in the shade—she burned so easily, most times. Tim had said, "It's nice; why don't we use it in the bedroom? It'll look fine with the curtains," and she had thought it a nice idea and had immediately put on her nightstand and turned it just so.
Their hair still wet from the mist-bottle spray, beads on their skin a combination of tap and persperation, Nan sighed, "Pippo," and he kissed her neck, said, "I know, my lovely." Under the blanket and in low light they were Pippo and woman, poor and passionate and alive in the barrio, though they really had little idea what a barrio was. The mist they sprayed on one another was heat sweat from the outdoor sun too far from the ocean for any of the cooling effects of an ocean breeze, and their wet hair was dark, dark brown, thick and wavy. Shadows widened their lips and darkened their skin and they were Pippo and woman, alive and in love and exploding with life-lust.