like a sweet breeze on a field

It's a month before Emory, so consummately self-confident in person, gets up the courage to call the number Jim left with him. In fairness he's been occupied to some degree with another, steadier lover, and the precocious curly-haired daughter that goes with him; but plenty of it is sheer nervous second-guessing. Finally, on an unseasonably mild evening with no other company, he picks up the phone.

On Saturday morning Emory wakes in the hotel bed, considerably nicer than the ones where he has ended up in the past, his face half-hidden against Jim's back. It takes him a little while to put the pieces together; then, wincing a little in the light, he sits up.