The man thought he had seen everything that a man could see from his wife. This he told his friends at the bar. Had he seen this? they asked, pointing to places on their bodies to refer to places on her body. What about this? they asked, moving their bodies to mimic how hers might move. Yes, he kept saying quietly, blushing hard. He let them go on, hoping one of them would think of something he hadn't seen. His best friend — not closest, but best — said it was okay to have seen everything. He could see everything again. Others said no, if he had seen all that he had to see, it was time for him to move on. Move on? The man had often moved over, and when absolutely required, he knew himself to be able to move through. But move on?

When the man got home, he went in quietly, hoping his wife was asleep. He was afraid she would show him something he had already seen. But his wife was awake and reading in the living room. Just as he entered, a dove flew into the window and dropped, leaving a little knock of blood on the glass. His wife got up. He had never seen her do anything when she did not know she was being watched. The man became excited. His wife opened the window where the body of the dove lay across the sill. She nudged it off with her foot, and it went over and down in its limp, warm way. They lived on the nineteenth floor, so no landing thump could be heard. The man came out of the shadow. I have never seen that before! he said. Oh? she said, blushing. Really? That? I do that all the time.


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