"How'd we do this morning, Lucky? How 'bout you, Lucy?" Ok, I admit it. I talk to my chickens. They seem to like it, though. I fancy it makes them produce more; knowing they're cared for. I love the feel of the still warm eggs, so fragile but with a sweet little heft to each one, as I carefully ease it out from underneath the sleepy clucking hens.

Everything about that particular May morning seems to stand out in sharp relief. It was around 7:30 , which is late for me. I had slept in after a restless night. My last dream was the kind that lingered, coloring the whole morning. Bits of it rose like dust from my pillows when I plumped them, creating a sense of erotic longing that left me, as usual, bereft and aching when I awoke.

A soft wind rustled through the open door of the chicken house, blowing my hair back, kissing my face. It whispered to me; Randy's voice. Julie, my lovely Julie. I want you. Open yourself to me. Commanding me as usual. I set the basket down and let my head fall back, feeling my hair fall away from my face. I felt him, breathing gently against my neck, a whisper of a spirit. Sighing, I closed my eyes, forgetting the eggs, no longer hearing the squawk and chatter of the chickens around me.

Running my hands over my body, my fingers lightly rested at my breasts, as the nipples rose with need. I felt the heat in my sex; the raw desire which had gone unmet for so many years now. I shivered and whispered my husband's name, slipping a hand in my jeans, following his whispered commands.

He had been stolen from me; snatched from life by a drunk hit and run driver. Now, at age 36 I was still alone. I had barely looked at another man in all these years. I couldn't; the image of Randy was so strong in my mind and heart that I couldn't even fantasize about someone else. There was simply no room. The spirit of Randy enveloped and controlled me, just as he had done in life. I belonged to him and even his death had not set me free. I didn't want to be free. I think I was afraid to be.

A hand slipped into my panties, with fingers long and strong. Randy's hand? I knew he couldn't really be there, and yet he was. Yes, they were my own fingers that pressed against me, but it was Randy's touch caressing me, easing the ache of loneliness. I moaned quietly as my own hand sought its pleasure.

Then the hand jerked away, Randy's image dissipating in a mist as the rumble of a car engine caused me to turn my head toward the road. I straightened up quickly, the lethargy of my sexual need instantly erased as I listened, head cocked to hear better. Now who would be coming to see me at this hour? My nearest neighbor, Mrs. Jamison, coming to borrow some necessary ingredient for her family's breakfast?

I really didn't have any friends to speak of. Moving from another town fifty miles away, Randy and I had bought the farm when we had married. We had been so absorbed in getting it up and running that it was really our whole world.

Eventually we made a few friends in town, but Randy had been at the heart of our social life, such as it was. I was happy to be in the background, letting his larger-than-life personality carry both of us.

When he died, my will, my desire, to keep up any contacts had died too. People had tried to be friendly at first, to visit and to include me, but it wasn't the same without Randy, and they gave up fairly easily. Frankly this suited me. I had always been in the shadow of Randy's warm light and had liked it that way.

The car was in view now, an old gray Ford with a dented bumper and one mismatched door of faded red. It pulled up into my circular dirt drive and the man inside cut the engine. I stood still by the hen house, clutching my basket, suddenly wishing I had the gun that I kept locked in a drawer on Randy's side of the bed. I hate guns, but at this particular moment, as my heart started a little tattoo against my chest, I felt like I needed it. We don't get strangers much around here and I never got them.

My heart quickened with a twinge of fear as I watched him climb out of the car. I stood with what I hoped was resolute firmness; chin stuck out a little, shoulders back, expression grim.

A tall man emerged from the car. His dark blond hair was tousled and his face was dotted with a few days of stubble. I strode toward him, pretending a confidence I didn't feel. "Can I help you? This here's private property."

The man looked apologetic, glancing at his watch as if he only just realized it was a little early to come calling. I peered at him, stepping a little closer to get a better look. He was a stranger to me. Who was this man?

Answering my unspoken question he said, "Excuse me, are you Mrs. Bradley? That posted the ad in town? Needing a handy man? Because that would be me, ma'am. I can fix anything. And I could use some work. I'm new in this neck of the woods." His voice was deep, the timber pleasing, the twang southern.

Ah, the ad. But why didn't he just call, like a normal person would? I guessed he must have asked someone in town where the farm was, since I hadn't put my address. I needed some work done, and with old Mr. Henley now rendered partially paralyzed by his stroke, I couldn't rely on my regular Mr. Fix-It. I had tacked the little flyer on the post office bulletin board last week, asking for a "handy man" to give me some estimates on various and sundry repairs I hadn't been making in these past years.

"I'm sorry to come by so early, ma'am, and without calling. I don't exactly have a phone at the moment. I'm a very early riser and I thought maybe if I got here early, I'd have a better chance. I hope I haven't intruded, ma'am. I could just wait in my car till a more convenient time." He started to turn back toward his car.

"No, no," I stopped him. "Seeing as you're here, we might as well discuss things. I'll show you what I've got and maybe we can work something out."

"Thank you," he said, smiling, extending his hand. "I really appreciate it, Mrs. Bradley. My name is Bill. Bill Thompson. Pleased to meet you." I took the offered hand, noticing the strong firm grip of a well-calloused hand. A workman's hand. That was a good sign, at least. I couldn't help but smile back; something in his face compelled a response and I found my suspicions easing.

We dropped hands and I hid mine, suddenly self-conscious of my stubby bitten nails and torn cuticles. We stepped back from one another. Surreptitiously I looked him up and down. A long lean body under a worn, soft cotton t-shirt of faded blue and jeans so bleached they were almost white. He seemed to be eyeing me as well, and I felt a shiver suddenly, as if he could see through my clothes.

Perversely, my nipples hardened again, momentarily confusing me, since only my Randy could do that to me. I shifted slightly, covering myself protectively, hoping he hadn't noticed. The man looked away, pushing a thick lock of hair from his forehead.

As we began to walk toward the hen house where the first repairs would be needed, he asked, "Is there a Mr. Bradley, ma'am?"

I colored a little and almost said, "Yes, of course," but of course there wasn't. At least not someone anyone else could see. The fact that Randy was still realer to me than most living people was not something I felt would be readily understood by most folks.

"I'm a widow," I said quietly. "That's why I need a handy man. I can do some of this stuff, but most of it's beyond me."

"I'm sorry," he said simply, and left it at that, which I appreciated.

We walked and discussed what needed to be done. Bill offered some very reasonable prices to fix things. I realized with a small surprise that I was actually enjoying this little walk and talk with someone on this spring morning. Usually it was just Randy and me. I would feel his presence like a palpable thing next to me as I collected eggs and walked the grounds, as I ran my pottery wheel in the shed, as I brushed my teeth and showered, and especially when I lay down to bed.

He was always there, my secret spirit. Even when he had been alive, we had been a unit unto ourselves. We were our own universe, he used to tell me, still told me, if I were to be honest. As a result, when my husband was killed, nothing much changed in my life. My parents are dead, and my sister lives 2,000 miles away. I always consoled myself with the fact that I liked my solitude. I didn't need anyone else and I liked it that way. And yet I couldn't deny the smallest flowering of excitement, of anticipation at having this man, this stranger, suddenly walking by my side, with a promise of many more hours if he were to complete the discussed repairs.

You don't need him. I'll show you what to do . I jumped a little; Randy had never "talked" to me before when other people were around. The voice was so loud in my own head I actually glanced over to see if Bill had heard! But he was walking quietly along, no indication that anything was amiss; no sign that he was aware that spirits from beyond the grave were buzzing in my head.

Despite Randy's silent admonitions, I realized with a first pang of guilt that I didn't want to send this man away. When I had advertised for a handy man, for some reason I had it in my head that I'd get another grizzled old man like Mr. Henley to come up and "do for me" as they say. It didn't occur to me I'd get a young sexy guy, who admittedly looked a little worse for wear, but had sparked the first interest I had in another man for as long as I could remember.

I smoothed back my hair, secretly trying to brush it with my fingers, whispering in my head to Randy that I was just trying to be polite. My hair is thick and hangs down to my shoulders, curling and waving however it feels like. I don't usually pay it any mind, but I realized with a small shock of surprise that I was self-conscious around this guy. I suddenly thought about my face, my 36 year old face, which had nothing but a kiss of the sun for color. No makeup graced its thin sharp planes. My nose is long and straight and my chin a trifle too prominent. Randy said I had a tendency to thrust it out when I was mad or scared. My eyes are brown and large, almost too large for my thin face. Randy said they were haunting eyes; lover's eyes, and I let him say it.

And I'm your only lover, don't forget. Get another man for the job; this guy's the wrong one. Randy was whispering now, in that cajoling tone he used when he wanted to convince me to do something I didn't want to do. And in the end, if not sooner, I always did what Randy wanted. Since I was 16 and the 26-year-old bigger-than-life man had entered my life as a boarder at my parents' house, I had never said no to him. It was as simple as that. My family had approved of the older man who swept me off my feet. My dad especially had old-fashioned notions about someone taking care of me when he no longer could.

Randy did court me like a gentleman, refusing to introduce me to the forbidden pleasures of sex until we were engaged when I turned 17. And when we married a year later, I promised to cherish him till death did us part, and it turned out, beyond.

For some reason, up until that day when Bill Thompson pulled up in his old Ford, it hadn't troubled me that my dead husband still talked to me. I heard his raspy sweet voice all day long, keeping me company and keeping his memory vivid even after all these years. I could have gone to therapy, I guess, to stop the voice, but I liked it; I needed it. And I always obeyed it, as I had done when he was alive. I'm a strong woman, but I like a stronger man; one who tells me what's what. Just the way I'm built, I suppose.

Today, for the first time, I decided to ignore him. I realized I didn't want to send Bill away. And yet guilt tugged quietly at me. "Oh, hush," I actually said out loud.

"Excuse me?" Bill turned toward me. I blushed and mumbled something about the chickens scrabbling. I had told Randy to hush! What in the world would happen next?

We finished touring the grounds and went into the kitchen to work out the numbers. I offered Bill some coffee, which he drank greedily, after heaping spoons of sugar and pouring enough cream to fill it to the top of the mug. I drank my third cup, feeling the jittery edge of too much caffeine, watching him over the rim, pretending I wasn't. It occurred to me as he drank it that the man was hungry. Southern hospitality came to the fore and I said, "I haven't had breakfast yet. Would you care to join me? Just eggs and bacon, but I have plenty." Actually I'd had breakfast, but I wouldn't mind another one. I've always had a hearty appetite. Randy used to tease me that I had a tapeworm in me, because I could eat like a horse and still remain slim. That was less true these days; I'd noticed my waist thickening a bit, but what was one little extra meal?

"That'd be very nice, ma'am," he said, biting his lower lip, his eyes burning with a contained desire that I was certain now was hunger, restrained by politeness and caution.

I smiled, wondering silently why this strong young man was hungry, why he didn't seem to have food to eat or a job to earn himself a living. But of course I didn't inquire. Instead, I directed him to the table while I went to scramble fresh eggs and fry some bacon. In a few minutes I dumped a big pile of yellow fragrant eggs on his plate, and a smaller amount on my own. Then I brought the bacon, which I had laid out on a paper towel, and gave him six pieces, and three for myself. He picked up his fork, and then set it down again, clearly waiting for me. I liked that; he had some manners, even when he was so clearly ravenous.

After I poured him another cup of coffee, I sat across from him and offered the cream from the little cow creamer that I've had since I was a little girl. You hold it by the little curled tail and it pours cream from the mouth. The porcelain is a faded white with black spots here and there, like a real cow. I love that creamer, even with its pale crack from the time my sister dropped it and my dad had carefully re-glued it.

"Eat up," I said now, taking pity on him. Bill at once grabbed his fork and began shoveling steaming bites of egg and bacon into his mouth. He paused only to slurp coffee and take big bites of toast. I felt curiously pleased; I hadn't had anyone to cook for in so long I had forgotten the sense of satisfaction you could derive from watching someone enjoy what you have cooked. Again I felt myself softening slightly toward him. Randy was silent for the moment.

Bill didn't stop until his plate was clean. But when I offered to make him more he shook his head. "No, thank you though. I think I ate a little too much as it is. I guess I didn't realize how hungry I was. It was delicious."

I nodded, and stood to clear the table. Bill jumped up to help. Randy wouldn't have done that. Women's work, he always told me, and I didn't mind. But I let Bill help, even allowing him to dry my old china plates after I had washed them. I realized I was prolonging the moment till he took his leave.

I glanced sidelong at Bill, secretly admiring his thickly muscled forearms, hushing Randy in my mind. The little pull in my groin made me shift slightly, accompanied by a stab of guilt at my unfaithful body. I felt my nipples stiffen again against my blouse and I turned away from him, thinking how long it'd been since I'd lain with a man. This line of thinking made my face feel hot, and I was afraid I might be blushing! Julie. Where are you, baby? What's happening? Guilt overcame whatever desire there might be and I clamped my mouth into a thin line, determined to remain faithful to my dead husband, not yet admitting how crazy that line of thinking was.

I showed Bill where to begin on the henhouse, and left him to it, angry with myself for acting like a schoolgirl in front of him. I took care of my daily chores and then checked back, to find Bill sweating and the henhouse roof mostly repaired. The work looked professional and I was pleased. Along with cash for the job, I brought him some lemonade, which he drank gratefully, making me wish I'd brought the whole pitcher. I almost offered him lunch, but decided I was being too forward, and let him go, watching him drive off in that old clunker of his, wondering where he was going.

* * *

That night in bed it took me a while to fall asleep. I did finally drift off, only to be awakened from an instantly forgotten dream that had left me so aroused that just turning over and moving a leg had made me come. And then Randy was right there, guiding my hand, burying my thoughts of Bill, turning them back toward him, the only man I had ever lain with. Randy was inside my head, and he knew I was thinking about Bill, comparing the two of them, wondering about Bill's naked body, which was longer and leaner than Randy's compact, muscular build.

Randy guided me to another orgasm, leading my hand in a little dance over my pussy, spreading my legs, kissing my mouth with his ghost of a mouth, playing with my breast with fingers he guided, making me forget anyone but him. After I came a second time, my little gasps muted by the pillow, I lay still, staring out the window. The moon was just past full, bright in a blue-black sky.

* * *

As I got dressed the next morning I took more care than usual, brushing out my hair and wearing something with a little color to it. Not that Bill would notice, I was sure. I actually toyed with the idea of makeup for a moment, but quickly recognized how ridiculous that would be. And so obvious. An old widow dressing up for the hired help. I was angry at myself for even thinking about it. And yet, as I buttoned the blouse, an image, unbidden, of his thick fingers pulling them open popped into my mind. This was crazy stuff. Pulling on my jeans, I slammed out of my bedroom and went to my barn to throw some clay before I made a complete fool out of myself.

When Bill arrived at our agreed upon time of 8:00 I didn't offer him breakfast, not wanting to appear overly friendly. He was, after all, just the hired hand. I had paid him in cash the day before, so presumably he at least had gotten himself some food. He was still wearing the same dirty clothes, and still hadn't shaved. What was with this guy? I left him to his own devices as he went from project to project. He took a break around lunchtime. I spied on him, sitting in his car, not eating, but drinking from a big plastic jug of water. Wasn't he hungry? He leaned back, tilting his cap over his head, in a pose to "catch a little shuteye." It suddenly occurred to me that he might be very used to sleeping in that position. Curiosity won out over politeness. I decided to find out the mystery behind this mystery man.

To do so, I invited him to an early supper, to which he readily agreed. Over a simple meal of hamburgers and corn on the cob, we engaged in small talk about the jobs he was working on for me. Finally I came right out with it. "So, if you don't mind my asking, where do you live, Bill?"

I half expected what he said but was surprised he was admitting it. "Right now I'm living in my car."

"Your car!"

"Yeah, you might say I'm between homes right now. It's been a couple of weeks. I'm trying to save to get the deposit for an apartment, as soon as I figure out where I want to settle. I've been on the move, doing odd jobs as I go. I responded to your ad because I like farms. I grew up on one, as a matter of fact, and I miss the country life."

"Well, I know it's none of my business, but-"

"But you want to know why a strong able-bodied guy like myself is such a loser with no home and no job, right?"

I blushed a little and looked away, but didn't deny it. Loser , Randy echoed silently.

"Well, I'll tell you straight out. I'm a drunk. At least I've been a drunk for most of my adult life. I've been sober now for about three months and I plan to stay that way. I left my girlfriend of five years right after she kicked me out." He laughed a little, but there was no mirth in it. "I left everything with her. All the furniture, the good car, the house. All of it. I want to start fresh and make my way up again. This time without scotch and rye to get me through. And I'll do it, too. I'll do it or die trying."

He looked at me almost defiantly, as if he were daring me to disagree. I was surprised at his candor. But at least it made sense now. Dangerous, that's what he is. Throw the bum out. I ignored Randy, thinking about the courage it must have taken to just up and leave, and not turn to the bottle for solace. What better excuse than having no woman and no home? But instead here he was, working for me, trying to begin a better life. Well, I had a good life, even if it was a lonely one, and I could help him, at least a little.

I didn't know how to respond directly to what he'd said. So I just nodded and offered, "Would you like to take a shower?"

He seemed taken aback at first by my response. Then he laughed, his expression rueful. "I must smell like a pig in a pen! There's nothing I'd like better. Thank you."

After he got some fresh clothes from his car, I showed him the shower in the downstairs bathroom that Randy had installed. He had lovingly restored our old farmhouse and made it quite livable, adding the modern kitchen and the second bathroom. Now I felt his displeasure like something physical as I led Bill into the bathroom, armed with fresh soap and a big towel. I found myself wishing, for the first time, that Randy would leave me be. I quashed the thought almost before it surfaced, and busied myself in the kitchen, turning on the radio to shut out the voice in my head.

When he came out a while later, Bill looked like a different man. His hair was much blonder than I had first thought; it was almost white, bleached by the sun into fine pale gold. His eyes looked bluer against a freshly shaven face. I drew in my breath slightly, turning away.

Bill drove away soon after that, with a promise to return in the morning to finish the last of the jobs I had given him. I realized I didn't want him to leave, to drive off in that old jalopy, doing odd jobs across Texas while he looked for something permanent to do. Then I had a thought, which at first I ignored, but which wouldn't go away. What if he stayed here? I had fallow land out back - land that had been laid to rest when Randy had been. I didn't have the heart or gumption to plant and plow the fields. And because of Randy's insurance, I didn't need the money. I lived very comfortably off the interest from the policy, which was safely invested. It allowed me to continue with my pottery and my puttering. I only kept the chickens because I liked them, and I liked the fresh eggs.

But my farmland was good land, with good fertile soil, especially after this enforced fallow period while I mourned my loss. Maybe it was time to begin again? The thought of those green shoots of corn coming up, and the tall brown and yellow sunflowers, with their dusty black faces, made me long suddenly for what had been lost. Did I really care, or did I just want to offer something to keep Bill around? Would he even be interested? Farming is hard work, but at least I could offer him a place to stay, and good honest labor.

I was anxious the next morning. Distractedly I nibbled on a fingernail, then stopped myself, thinking for the hundredth time that I had to quit. Too much caffeine and nervous fingers, a Nervous Nelly, Randy used to call me. Waiting for Bill to show, I knew my own motives were suspect, but I was offering him something of value. I laid it out for him pretty simply, describing the land and the crops we could grow there, if he was interested. "If you're willing to work, I've got several acres out back that haven't been farmed in years."

The little ache as a flash of Randy, grinning, sweating, riding his tractor among the crops, passed my mind's eye. Would he want it farmed again, in honor of him? I didn't give the spirit time to answer, but went on, "Corn and sunflowers. Actually, this is the time to plant, for the best yields around here. I have seed, if you think it's worth it." I waited, pretending a casualness I did not feel. For some reason, for many reasons, I wanted this man, this virtual stranger, to stay. The world seemed to suspend for a moment while I tried to deny to myself that it mattered what he said.

Bill said quietly, "You may just be saving my life. The answer is yes. Absolutely. I'll make sure I don't let you down. And if you need me to go; if it isn't working out, you say the word." I looked at him, feeling a crazy heat suffuse my neck and chest. His eyes were the color of the sea, aquamarine and piercing. I felt for a ridiculous moment as if they were penetrating my skin, my muscle and bone, right to the heart of me. I looked away, confused, aching, not sure if it was for him, or because of him, or because of Randy, and what could never be again.

* * *

Bill had been living in my spare bedroom for two weeks. He was an eager and hardworking farmer, and had already gotten the land ready for planting. What he lacked in experience he made up for in enthusiasm. The work agreed with him, and his skin was soon bronzed, setting off his blond hair and blue eyes to great advantage. I found myself caught up in his energy. Randy's constant conversation in my head had quieted to a little whisper, but he was still there. I would watch Bill, thinking of him, comparing him with Randy in my mind. I tried to be discreet as I stared at his long lean body, and mentally compared it to my husband's. Bill was taller, and aside from his arms, more leanly muscled than Randy had been. But very sexy in his own non-Randy way.

The nights were hardest, when we were both in our separate rooms. We passed the evenings pleasantly enough, when Bill stayed around. He often drove away from the farm, saying good night before he left and I never got up the nerve to ask him where he went. When he did stick around, we would listen to the radio and read companionably on the porch, or watch some show on television.

Bill was always the perfect gentleman, never dropping the slightest hint that he regarded me as anything other than his employer, and perhaps friend. We were on a first name basis, but it never went beyond that. Not that I expected it to. Or wanted it to. Or did I?

Sometimes I thought I didn't know what I wanted. Part of me was relieved I didn't have to rebuff the advances of some guy, but another part of me was insulted that he never tried. Was it because I was too old for him? He was only 30, and I was 36. I had always been Randy's "little girl." I wasn't sure I liked being "the older woman." Of course, this line of thinking was ridiculous, as it implied that Bill thought of me as anything other than his boss, which obviously, he didn't.

But at night, alone in my room, I would lie back, thinking about Bill, pretending to myself I was thinking about Randy. I would feel that familiar tightness in my pussy that until now only Randy had produced. Pressing my legs together, trying to ignore the new tender ache in my sex, I would turn over on my side, trying to find a cool spot among the tangle of sheets. I wasn't ready yet, I decided. It would be a betrayal. I closed my eyes, willing myself to sleep, hoping for no more fevered dreams.

* * *

One evening we were sitting on the porch and an almost cool breeze blew my hair, which I had let down from its restricting ponytail as the air had cooled. Distracted, I put a fingertip into my mouth.

"Why do you do that?" Bill startled me out of a reverie.

"Do what?"

"Bite your nails like that. What have you got to be nervous about out here in the peaceful country?"

We were out on my nice old wrap-around porch. I was sitting on the step, sewing a button on one of Randy's old work shirts I had lent Bill, and he was standing, leaning against the railing, staring out across the flat plains of farmland.

I leaned my face into the breeze, smelling the clean air before answering. "I don't know, really," I said slowly. "I've always done it. It's just habit, I guess." I looked down at my fingers, at the raggedy edged nails and ripped cuticles. I wanted to suck on my index finger where I'd bitten a little too low and it hurt, but I certainly wasn't about to do that in front of Bill now. Setting the sewing aside, I hid my hands under my thighs as I admitted, "I think I'm kind of a nervous person, really."

"I don't agree." He sounded so certain; it was at once irritating and compelling.

"Well, excuse me for saying so, but you don't know me all that well."

"I know, but I get feelings about people. I think this nervous hyper-energy thing you do is a cover-up."

I was at once annoyed and intrigued, not sure if I should be insulted or not. I waited for him to continue, which he did. "I think you're really a calm, deeply serene person who hasn't found what she is looking for yet. Yeah, life's dealt you some shit, but that doesn't change a person's underlying nature.

"I think maybe something's missing in your life, and you rush around going nowhere looking for it. But you haven't defined it yet. Maybe it isn't any one thing, exactly, but more a state of mind. Maybe it's an acceptance. That's something we all work toward, I guess."

"Huh," was all I said, but he got me thinking. In addition to the obvious stuff of being a widow, I did have a secret. A painful secret that I took out sometimes and wrapped around myself like a hair shirt, though less and less these days.

I couldn't have babies. We'd tried for years, Randy and me, and finally after all the pills and poking and tests, they told me to forget about it. We could adopt, they told us. I was willing, but Randy wasn't.

"You don't know what we'd get," he'd tell me. "Bad genes. That's why the kid's up for adoption in the first place. Bad genes. Bad parents. Bad news."

I protested at first, but he was adamant. And we had each other, he'd remind me. What more did we need? His will was so much stronger than my own, and his ways were so winning, and I always backed down. Now I found myself wondering what would have happened if I'd insisted? Would he have gone along? Would I have a child now to nurture, now that my husband was dead and cold in the ground, and "our little universe" was just some distant sad little memory?

I sighed deeply, shaking my head to shake out this crazy cobweb of useless "what if" thought. Leaning forward on my elbows, I felt Bill slide down so that he was sitting next to me on the top step. I was aware that he was next to me now, but I didn't turn toward him. Something had shifted in the air between us. I felt him move closer to me; saw him from the corner of my eye. The hairs on the back of my neck rose, but I wasn't afraid.

He turned his face toward me, and slowly lifted his arm, like he was approaching a rabbit or wild deer. He brushed a strand of hair from my cheek. I started; he had never touched me before, till now even seeming to avoid being too close to me.

His finger brushed my cheek as he moved the hair from my face. I felt the touch like something electric against my skin. Something alive. He didn't speak; he just stared at me, his eyes again penetrating the muscle, the bone, the essence of me until I turned away, flushed, my eyes downcast, heart thumping absurdly in my chest. His finger again on my face, this time under my chin, lifting my head, forcing me to look at him. He leaned down, his lips slightly parted. Oh my god, he was going to kiss me, I was sure of it. I jerked back, suddenly frightened, Randy's memory a screaming cacophony of protest in my head. This couldn't be happening. Shouldn't be happening. Julie! Randy!

But Bill couldn't hear the spirit's silent shouts, and his other hand came around behind my head, holding me still, no escape. He continued to lean down, inexorably, until his lips found mine. It was a gentle kiss, but there was no question. No permission asked. He just took what he wanted and I found myself kissing him back. His lips were soft and warm, compelling, and I found my own mouth parting, seeking his offered tongue, enfolding it, accepting it like a little bird greedy for what I had forgotten I craved.

This time when I pulled away he let me, watching me with those eyes, now hooded, his expression obscured. I felt flushed and I was breathing heavily, my mouth open, trying to get oxygen, trying to collect myself. I could feel myself falling, falling into something dangerous, something forbidden. My guilt was sharp as razor blades as the spirit of Randy slid up into my mind's eye, his face a mask of reproach. He'd always been a jealous lover and even in death he remained so. But his image paled as Bill leaned forward again, this time taking me in his strong arms. Those arms shaped to work the earth, to work machines, to work on me, to hold me, to embrace me, to own me. After another moment, he let me go.

I sat still, trying to recover, my mind reeling with confusion. Randy, Bill, my own unmet, pent up desires, my insecurities around this virile man, the possibilities his kiss had just opened up before me, like a vast chasm that I could fall into or run away from. Ridiculously, I started to cry. Bill didn't move. He turned toward me, his face calm, his eyes understanding, but he didn't speak. He didn't wrap his arms protectively around me, for which I was grateful, because the broken dam of tears would have drowned us both.

It wasn't a dainty cry, with tears slipping prettily down my cheeks, eyes luminous and filled with sorrow, like in the romance novels I used to read when I was young. It was a gut wrenching terrible heaving of grief, my reddened nose gooey with snot and gasping raspy keening sobs being pulled from deep inside of me. Bill sat calmly through it all, like this happened to him all the time - he kissed a woman and she burst into hysterical sobbing.

Why was I crying? Was I crying for that lost baby I had never had? Was I crying at last the healing cry of true mourning? Was I only now admitting with my whole being that Randy was truly and really dead? He wasn't alive inside of me. That spirit that constantly whispered and directed me wasn't Randy. Randy was gone. And who would be there now that Bill had chased him away?

The tears weren't purely sadness. No. It was a combination of that loss, and of a strange little tendril, a green wobbly shoot of, what was it? Hope? Desire? Surely that kiss meant nothing, or next to nothing, to Bill. To this rambling man who could just pick up and leave at the drop of a hat. He was a tumbleweed rolling through my life, just like in some corny western, where the girl is left longing while the man rides off in black, tall on his horse, the perennial loner.

And yet to me that kiss, oh that kiss. I'd kissed other boys before, other than Randy. Groping stolen kisses in movie theaters and cars in the two years of high school before I'd met Randy. And of course Randy's kisses had sustained me for all the years of our marriage. I still felt the imprint of his last weak kiss, just before he died, on the stretcher before they loaded him into the ambulance and rushed him to the hospital where he was pronounced dead on arrival.

I burst into fresh tears, quieter now. Instinctively Bill understood it was time to hold me, and he did, though still he was silent, waiting for me. Finally I quieted, exhausted, my face blotched, sniffing and wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand, totally unladylike. My shuddering breaths slowly eased and at last I was still, just letting him hold me, my mind truly empty for the first time I could remember.

The night was still - just crickets playing their little violins, and the occasional bullfrog burping. Bill held me cradled against his chest and I became aware of the steady slow thump of his heart against my ear. He smelled nice. Like the loam from the fields, and something fresh and piney with a hint of lemon. A masculine smell. I tried, out of habit, to remember Randy's smell, and realized with a little jolt that I couldn't. I could see his face, hear his voice, but I couldn't remember his smell! I was losing him. Wait, that was crazy, he'd been dead for six years, I'd lost him years ago. But oddly it was only now I was realizing it, in my bones.

"Oh my god," I said, "My husband's dead." Bill held me still; I couldn't see him. He must have thought I was crazy; I think I was, in fact. I had kept Randy like a pearl tucked between my breasts, as if that would shield me from the loss, like a secret talisman against living in the world without him. That kiss had unleashed something, either that or it was just that the timing was right, but for the first time since Randy had died, I wanted to, no, I needed to talk to someone about it.

Slowly I sat up, and Bill's arms released me, giving me space as he shifted slightly away from me. Then, as if he could read minds, he tilted his head to the side. "Tell me." I breathed in deeply and looked at him. He sat there looking at me, a watchful, interested expression on his face. And something else too - tenderness. Suddenly I didn't know what to say, how to put it when I wasn't quite sure what it was.

But somehow I began, and I talked and talked, talked until my throat was raspy. And he talked too, sharing about his own losses, and his own dreams until the sky went from black to indigo to gray and purple. Talked out, we went to bed, each to our own bed, though I wondered for a second if he'd suggest something different.

I slept deeply that night, no dreams piercing my consciousness, and in the morning I realized that something had changed. After six years of walking in my sleep, something had awakened inside me. I only hoped I was ready for whatever lay ahead.