VOLARE

In the evening they went down to her room—it was chilly, so they turned on the heater in the hall, as well as the portable heater in her room. He brought down all the pillows from the sofa upstairs and banked them against the wall, and they snuggled together in front of the TV to watch Casablanca.

He had said to her, “Even if we don’t sleep together, couldn’t we just fool around some time?” She had the impulse now to take his hand and guide it under her shirt to her breasts. Instead, she held his hand, caressed it, examined it. She wanted him to make the first move. But after all she had said to him, she knew he didn’t dare. As she watched him, he turned to look at her, and they stayed that way, until, suddenly, he put his hands over his face with real shyness.

“Why did you do that?” she laughed.

“I was embarrassed—thinking lascivious thoughts.”

“What?” she asked.

But he didn’t answer.

They went back to being quiet until a Volare ad come on, and she broke, full-voiced, into the chorus, “Volare! Oh-Oh!”

“You know,” he said, “I’m yours. You can do anything with me you want.”

“I can?” she asked, then drew his hand to her breasts. And they fooled around a little.