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the nearby bed, I couldn’t shake that image of the cast from my mind: I had broken something open and out came this man.
    Zachary took one of my breasts into his mouth, and then the other. My own lust surprised me. I thought about the piñatas. I felt like I’d gotten one open, you see, and I was scrambling for its contents.
    When we woke the next morning, Zachary asked me how I took my coffee, and I said, “No particular way,” which was, suddenly, true. I would drink it dark or with cream, sugared or bitter.
    I told myself I was done with requirements. Was I?

    A fter Zachary and I bid adieu, I went home to my now-spotless apartment and surfed the internet for four hours. I was waiting for him to call; I can admit that now because he did call, that very afternoon.
    Before answering, I tucked a frizzy strand of hair behind my ear, and then chastised myself—Zachary couldn’t see me.
    “Hello?” I said into the phone.
    “It’s me.”
    I paused for a moment. Was he being serious? His familiarity was so presumptuous. Like we were best buds. But I didn’t say so. After all, there was no need for him to tell me his name: it had flashed across my phone, and I had recognized his voice. I reminded myself that I was done with requirements. I smiled—would that transmit?—and asked him how his day was going.
    The second time he called, the next evening, I found myself waiting for it. And there it was again:
    “It’s me,” he said.
    “It’s you,” I said.
    I felt short of breath. This felt important. We didn’t need names. They didn’t matter, they didn’t suffice. This was Blow #3.
    Zachary cleared his throat.
    “Want to go to the beach, for a walk?”
    “Now?” I asked. It was after ten.
    “Oh. I guess not. No.” He paused. “I was thinking—this weekend?”
    “Sure,” I said, without even pretending to check my calendar.
    I t was too cold to swim. We couldn’t even take off our jackets, but we walked along the shore as planned, the icy water approaching and retreating, approaching and retreating. My hems got soaked. Zachary had worn pants that zipped off into shorts; I looked away when he made the transition. He pointed to my wet jeans and asked, “That’s not bothering you?” It’s fine, I told him. The hems were not only wet by then, but covered in sand, and they slapped against my ankles until my skin stung.
    Zachary told me about his day of searching for jobs. “I start typing these ridiculous things into the search engine. Smart person wanted. Or, Circus performer, no experience necessary.” He shrugged. “I keep hoping something perfect will come up.”
    “There are clown schools, you know.”
    He smiled and put a hand on the small of my back. “I probably need to reconsider my resume.” He kept talking. But he was asking me the wrong questions.
    “What if it’s more than a page long?” he asked.
    He expressed no concern about his email account, ([email protected], a vestige from his teenage years, apparently), and he did not bring up paper stock. He had no idea that fonts mattered.
    “What?” he asked.
    “Nothing.”
    He picked up a piece of driftwood, threw it halfheartedly, as if for some dog I couldn’t see.
    “You were about to say something.”
    “Just about fonts,” I said. “They matter.”
    “Oh?”
    I skipped ahead and picked up the piece of wood. It was my turn to throw. “To begin,” I said, and let the wood soar. I tried to keep my explanation short, but part of me wanted to talk forever. “Got it?” I asked, when I finished.
    Zachary held the driftwood now. I remember he took a moment or two to toss it. I imagined he was absorbing the information I had given him. Finally, he threw it, and we both watched it dive into the sand a few feet in front of us.
    “I wonder how far it’s traveled,” I said.
    Zachary nodded. “We can’t be the first to have thrown it down the beach.” He took my hand, and squeezed it. “It’ll probably be in Ventura next