He helped her to undo her dress. Modestly now, with the reserve of strangers, they stood back to back as they undressed.
She was beautiful and he had forgotten that. She was not really pale: her skin was gold. She was slim and cleanly made and her breasts were small. They faced each other and looked at each other, the detached, the lonely part of himself memorizing every detail of her.
Carla walked slowly toward him and touched his shoulder. Tears were in her eyes.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
She shook her head and smiled: nothing was the matter now.
He took her slowly then, pressing her against his body gently, every nerve vibrating in both of them; hearts beating quickly.
They stood like this in the middle of the room; then she broke away and walked over to the bed and pulled the cover down.
“Turn out the light, Bob,” she whispered. It was a ceremony now: neither of them spoke out loud in the presence of the miracle taking place. He turned out the light. The room was dark except for the lighted dots of windows in the buildings opposite and, over the buildings, like unorganized window lights, cold stars shone clearly.
He turned and walked to the bed. Carla lay on her back, her arms behind her head. He got in beside her and they lay there together, not speaking, hardly breathing, and he felt the blood pounding in his head while, next to him, Carla was shivering, was waiting. He turned over on his side, barely touching her.
They did not speak now. Words were discarded and no surface was needed. Instinct guided them finally, made them a separate world together; there was only a dream existence outside of themselves.