Truthfully I can’t think of a worst situation to be thinking about other men. But I am. “My knees can take it,” she said when I suggested we move from the bathroom to our bed. It’s not that I don’t want to finish, I just can’t. A home-run king trys at ball three but misses and we are all wondering why he is even swinging. This is not a metaphor, this is what I’m thinking. Big, dark Puerto Ricans in tight pants hitting and throwing a small white ball for a living. Her mouth is warm and soft and her hair is silk running through my fingers. Truthfully this is the happiest I’ve ever been. I think about her in a tight, white thermal undershirt and blue overalls, pregnant. I think of babies and children and her mouth is warm and soft. After fifteen minutes, the white kid from Fresno State is about to kick a field goal. Everyone is bending over. My hands are wrapped behind her head and I calmly pull her up to her feet and kiss her. She looks at me like a kicked puppy, wide-eyed and frothy.

“Let’s lay down,” I say.

“Oh,” she says, “yeah. Ok.” She turns off the light and we walk out the door.

Our bedroom is painted baby blue. This was my mother’s suggestion. “Inspiration,” she said. Dani sits on the end of the bed and undresses. She does this and her back is soft and shining like the way the Great Plains look from a 747 before the engines fail. “Dani is somethin’,” my mother said. “Dani’s got hips.” Some men never leave the womb. Some men spend their lives trying to get back in.

I tell Dani that I won’t be able to sleep and I leave the bedroom to put on some coffee. In the kitchen the clanging of loose pots sound like church bells. Last christmas Dani’s mother gave me coffee grinder. We do not own a coffee maker. I set the stockpot on the stove and measure out the usual two to one of coffee grounds and water. I take two eggs out of the fridge and crack them, reserving the whites and yokes for breakfast. Adding the shells to the stockpot keeps the coffee grounds on the bottom.

When the coffee is ready, I take a cup and walk out onto the porch. Dani joins me in sweats I’ve had since high school. The sun provides no heat this early in the morning. I tell her about a dream I had the night before last. I dreamed she sent me divorce papers, to sign, with a note that said we can date them later.

She wraps her arm in mine and tells me I’m being silly. My coffee steams and swirls, my nose warmed by dark roast Columbian vapors, my toes numb in German sandals. The dog lays at our feet, guarding us against the squeaking birds of dawn and the distant cry of tired coyote cubs. After a while, she yawns and retreats through the sliding screen door.

As the new day approaches, I watch the dog. His subtle breathing comforts me. Pneumonia in the desert does not wax, it wanes.

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