Peter had started meditating, once in the morning and once at night. I asked him if it made a difference.

"No, I still hear voices telling me to do things I don't want to think about. It gets me more nervous, sitting there and listening, not knowing what else I can do, except act." He leaned back against the cushions of the couch and crossed his arms behind his neck and closed his eyes.

"What do the voices tell you to do?"

"Kiss you."

"You've always wanted to kiss me. What's different?" I demanded. He ignored me.

"Am I attractive?" Peter asked. He was, tall and lean and athletic, with more muscle tone than a gym teacher.

"No, you're fat and ugly. Absolutely hideous. It's no wonder you're afraid to kiss me. You might turn into a toad."

"Shut up," Peter said.

I shut up.

When the first sunlight broke through gray clouds and sparkled against dewy grass and rain-drenched trees, a crisp smell grew over the city, washing away winter's loneliness. Gradually, the warmth burned through and ignited wildfires over the county. Patches of dry grass seized into yellow flames. Black plumes billowed across the golden fields. Cars stopped along the highway; people stared eagerly at summer's destruction. The sun, a huge fireball hurtling through the atmosphere, had struck one weed that exploded into devil's flames. Tongues of fire danced a jig across the landscape and scarred the once beautiful earth.

I sat on the porch watching the gray whispers fade into blue sky as the fire department doused the flames from a wildfire off Highway 1. As I let my arms dangle by my side, a hot sputter of sunlight blazed against the blond hairs of my forearm. Inside, Peter stirred the iced tea and poured it into long tall glasses. The clink of ice against glass comforted me as much as the moist beaded coolness against my hot and tired skin. We sat side by side, not speaking. We watched the gray smoke trail into nothingness against the vast washed-out canvas that bordered our world.

Peter pulled out his harmonica and played "Angry Young Man." The notes rattled a loose pane in the window behind us. An ice cream truck rumbled down the street, hiccuping "Pop Goes the Weasel." Peter stopped in mid-tune, letting the dizzy laughter of children chase away the music in his throat. I placed my arm around his shoulders and lay my head against the curve of his neck. My cold wet fingers slipped under his T-shirt and traced a circle around his hard nipple. He quivered like a string plucked on a guitar. His heart beat quickened underneath my hand. I closed my eyes and listened. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Peter's lips grazed my forehead. I tilted my head back and opened my eyes and saw him staring at me in distant wonder.

"Kiss me, you fool."

Peter shook his head, fitting the harmonica in the space between his lips, letting the passion and the anger and the disappointment vibrate through the metal teeth, creating a tense and lightheaded song.

The wildfire continued throughout the night, and another ignited over the weekend, setting a record for the fifth consecutive year that I had been here. Although I had no TV, I could guess what the pictures were like. The same stock footage of heroic firemen hosed down hungry flames. Sometimes they rescued people. More likely, they fought alone. Man against nature, as my English professor used to say, is a classic story-line.

Peter cared little for the fire reports. He moped around the house on his days off as a dance choreographer at a local studio. Sometimes he dressed in my husband's clothes, the denim and khakis falling loose around his joints where they puffed up around my husband's thick waist and massive thighs. The T-shirts swallowed the graceful lines of his powerful chest and flat stomach. Only his arms, pitifully white, bulged into a map of many rivers, blue veins coursing under the translucent skin. They were beautiful arms, arms that held me gently when I cried, arms that could lift and bend and break loneliness into a thousand pieces, scattering them to the wind.

I stayed outside when Peter visited, preferring the scrutiny of curious neighbors to the dangerous heat inside. Peter either napped on the couch or read one of his many library books of poetry. Sometimes he sat outside with me and played his harmonica. I introduced him to the neighbors as a cousin from San Diego.

Mrs. Lowsky, walking her French poodle, sniffed. "When's that husband of yours coming back?"

"A week before Labor Day. He has school to teach."

"Why didn't you go with him?"

"I don't like heights." It was the truth. I avoided elevators and airplanes. I could not imagine spending an entire summer hiking across the Alps where my husband was, studying the quiet formations of rock, taking in research that he would use to compose a diary of remembrances long after our marriage was over.

One evening, as the sun frolicked in a pink and orange sky, Peter barbecued chicken on the deck in the backyard. I stretched out on the chaise longue in a skimpy summer frock dotted with white and yellow daisies. My exposed shoulders had tanned evenly over the past four weeks. Peter hummed and turned the chicken. The smoky charcoals hissed and sputtered with fat drippings. I closed my eyes and let my lungs fill with the smells of burned flesh.

"I'm sick of this weather," I said. "It makes me groggy."

"You seem to be enjoying it."

"Appearances don't mean anything. You know that."

"You mean Mrs. Lowsky? She thinks we're having an affair."

"Aren't we?" I squinted. The sun burst into a fiery nimbus around Peter's sleek body. His face darkened against the sunlight, and I wondered if he was smiling or frowning.

"I haven't kissed you," he said.

"But you want to. You've always wanted to."

"Everyone has his limits. Mine stop right there before a kiss."

"You don't have to kiss to be unfaithful. You can talk your way into anything."

"What are you trying to say to me?" Peter flipped the chicken onto a paper plate and walked into the steaming house. When he returned, he filled a bucket full of water and carried it over to the barbecue.

"Hey, stop. That's no way to put it out."

"You've got a better idea?"

"Let it burn itself out. How about an iced tea?"

Peter shrugged. "I'll get it."

I sipped the cool amber liquid and watched the smoke from the barbecue knit into a hazy gauze. Peter hunkered over the patio table chewing corn on the cob. I sat across from him, gnawing on a chicken's wing. The distance between us widened, and from the living room, the telephone rang.

Peter rose and wiped his hands on a napkin. "I'll get it."

"Let it go to the machine." I grasped his wrist, tugging him back down, toward me. "You never know who it might be."

Our eyes locked, and for a moment, I thought I heard him mumble something about love.

"Are you finished with the grub?" he asked again.