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her jewelry, he can see the mole behind her left ear and it startles him, as if he’s discovering it for the first time. There’s an equal thrill when she unpins her hair and it swans down her back. Hair that Sol loves to feel the weight of when wet. Her honey licks of hair spill over her pillow and onto the sheet. Her face is dewy from the moonlight or pregnancy or, Sol would like to believe, because of him. How did a thirty-two-year-old redheaded radiologist whose best features are his calves and his mind, not necessarily in that order, get a twenty-one-year-old shiksa goddess? Looking at Cici ripe with his child, well, could life possibly get any better?
    The next morning, Sol gets up early and decides to surprise his wife with coffee in bed. My wife. He loves to say that— I’ll just go call my wife; sorry I can’t cover your shift, the missus is waiting for me. While the espresso percolates, Sol peruses the newspaper, folding each section in half lengthwise and then again crosswise. His long, tapered hands are spotted with freckles even though he’s barely been in the sun all summer. Between the move, Cici, and his radiology caseload at the hospital, he hasn’t been able to play much tennis. He hastily butters a roll, eats it in a few bites. This gives the pot enough time to bubble over, making a gritty mess Sol decides is best left to the new housekeeper, whose name he thinks is Coffee. Who names a child Coffee?
    When he returns to their bedroom, Cici is bent over next to her open closet. She’s making a series of exasperated Oooooff s, followed by a bout of cursing. Sol pulls the espresso cup from behind his back. “For the missus.”
    “Do you know my bag, is big like this?”
    “The one by the kitchen door that I almost killed myself tripping over last night?”
    “Ah, I forget! I put it there so it is ready to go.”
    “Where exactly is it going?”
    “ Buuuu, to the hospital, you silly.”
    “They say first babies are usually late so don’t get your hopes too high.”
    “No say that, Solomon.” The corners of her mouth start to droopand he remembers he’s got another surprise. At the last minute he’d gone into the yard to forage for flowers; he proffers a few lilac sprigs that he’s been hiding behind his back.
    “You find one that is still alive? In the heat? Oh, caro mio. ” Cici clasps the flower to her chest and her face brightens. He hopes it will always be this easy to make her happy.
    By the time Cici’s plopped down on the sofa, she’s on her third espresso, second croissant, and fifth cigarette, which she stamps out in a saucer. She traces the back of her fingernail over a silk pillow, feeling its cool surface—a habit she’s had since she was a baby—and goes to lick the jam off her last half a croissant. She lets the clumps dissolve on her tongue, enjoying how it sweetens the tobacco aftertaste. The living room is empty except for the sofa she’s on, but she doesn’t mind. She was brought up to believe that quality is far more important than quantity, be it in a woman’s essentials—handbags and shoes—or home furnishings. The house is still so new and it takes time to find antiques, the right colors for fabric, paint.
    In a minute her legs hurt and she’s perspiring underneath her breasts. Maybe she should have a bath or ask the housekeeper to drive her into town. What would she do in town? Go to the market, where she’ll have to deal with American money—it’s so ugly and only one color—and feel bad when she forgets the words toilet paper ? If the housekeeper goes with her, then she’ll have to talk to her and it’s tiring to translate in her head. Cici can’t get a command of English; its irregular verbs and genderless nouns have their way with her. American names are strange. Like the housekeeper: “Ah, come biscotti, ” Cici said when Solomon introduced them. “No, ma’am. Not like biscuit, that’s with a B . It’s C . It’s Cook, like stirring the