Missionary Stew
“Velveeta Keats was no longer there. Citron looked at his new watch and saw that it was a few minutes past four. They had gone to bed around 11:00 and made love—or fooled around, as Velveeta Keats would have it—for forty-five minutes or an hour. Citron hadn’t kept precise track of the time. Velveeta Keats had proved to be a passionate, inventive, even amusing lover much given to acrobatics and experimentation. Despite nearly four hours of sleep, Citron still felt slightly ravaged, but pleasantly so.
He located some of his scattered clothing—his shorts and shirt— put them on and went into the living room, where he found Velveeta Keats standing before the large sliding glass doors, a mug of coffee clutched in her hands. She was wearing a light cotton robe and staring out at the pale moonlight on the ocean. She was also crying, although she made no sound.
Citron put his arms around her. “Still scared?” he said.
He felt her nod against his shoulder. “I reckon … I reckon I’d best call him.”
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