"I've got a piece of dark brown material."
Oliver's eyes moved around the quilt. The patterns were unpredictable, but they had a sense of purpose, a natural order. "You could live in there," he said.
"That's the idea. Want some tea?" Oliver nodded while his eyes lingered on the quilt. He went into the kitchen and watched Suzanne make tea. She was wearing faded white jeans and a long mustard colored sweatshirt that clung to her curves. So compact and modest. Where did that superb quilt come from?
"It's so good to see you," she said, putting his tea in front of him.
He looked at her intently. "God, you're beautiful!"
She sat down, considering. "My teeth are too big. I look like a bulldog." She raised her eyes to his. "I guess I'm all right from the neck down."
"You're so—connected, " he said. "Your face is like your body. Your hand is like your face."
"I'm feeling bad about this," Suzanne said. She got up suddenly and knelt by his chair. "Oliver . . ." He pushed back from the table. She buried her face in his lap, and he stroked her hair as she rocked her head back and forth.
"What?" he asked.
"Help me."