My lips go on a downward slope, from kissing his mouth, to his chin, his neck, moving south to his chest. His hands give up on the clasp issue and move on to fingering through my hair, and I wonder how he knows that having my scalp lightly massaged like he’s doing now is just this unbelievable turn-on to me.

I want him so much and I know this should wait but curiosity to test-drive my non-frigidity is going to prevail here, it’s like I can’t help it. My mouth pulls back from his body as I step up on tippy toes to place my mouth against his ear to whisper into it what I want to do to him, and strangely I use the polite words instead of the nasty ones, and he whispers, “Really?” like maybe he’s also not so convinced we should go that far, but his quickened breath tells me he’s curious for some test-driving, too. And I whisper back, “Really,” because this time he did not answer, “Slow.”

My brain officially leaves the ice room, as if to say, I can’t watch. You know better.

I’ve got him in my hands—wow, who knew I was ambidextrous?—and my hands are feeling, feeling, feeling, and I can hear his breathing, and it’s heavy and soft at the same time, like its own feral whisper. His hands trace soft lines across my wet head, encouraging the motion of my hands, and I want him as much as I want it because he and it are the same and I am so greedy, I want everything from him.

“Norah.” It’s so cold in here but hearing him gasp my name, I feel like I am on fire. All those Jackie Collins novels Caroline and I read in seventh grade are totally starting to make sense.

My tongue blazes his trail, moving down toward the motion of my hands but not quite there yet; my accelerated heart rate slows down the pace of my hands. I want this, so much, but I am terrified even as I am willingly lost in it. I’m fine with doing this—no, I’m GREAT with doing this—but scared that I will do it wrong. “Norah,” Nick whispers again, and I hope that maybe with him, there is no wrong way. I hope that he will trust me. My heart is pounding pounding pounding and my mouth wants to go there but my head turns upward first, wanting to make eye contact with Nick, but in the fluorescent light I see his eyes are closed, so I speak instead, and I say, “Tell me. Guide me.” Because I want it to be both our instincts making this happen. And his eyes open for a moment and catch mine and through the machine glow, I see gratitude in his, and in my hands his response is even more affirmative, and okay, here I go.

Why, hello, Julio!

But some motherfucker has turned on the lights in this room and it’s not even like I want to die of embarrassment. I want to die from wanting this to happen and who the hell could be so inconsiderate as to ruin my f**king moment?

An old couple stands at the entrance to the ice room. She is dressed in a quilted robe and cheap slippers and looks just like my great-aunt Hildy in Boca who hates me because she says I have a potty mouth and because one time I made the big f**king mistake of admitting that the brisket my grandma makes is better than Aunt Hildy’s. He is dressed in boxer shorts and a T-shirt and, holy f**king shit, he is wearing those sock suspenders around his calves that I’m pretty goddamn sure are museum fashion artifacts. His face is crumpled and ancient, like he could be E.T.’s great-uncle, and he’s carrying an ice bucket. What the f**k do these geezers need ice for at this hour?

Their gray heads need a moment to process the blue sight.

“Oh,” Great-Aunt Hildy clone finally says.

“Oh, my,” her husband says.

I am imagining how Nick and Norah must look to Aunt Hildy and Uncle E.T. right now, in the Polaroid snapshot of their hopefully near-senile dementia minds. Nick: shirtless, pants still on but zippers and boxers down, his hands pressed against the back of the Pepsi machine. Norah: moist hair disheveled from Nick’s earlier scalp massage, wearing wet pants with the top button unfastened, and also shirtless except for the black lace bra on her bosom, just settled into kneeling position. B-U-S-T-E-D.

I hope Aunt Hildy notices how carefully I folded Salvatore’s jacket. That’s got to count for something.

The silence of the shock feels like an eternity until Nick glances over at Aunt Hildy and says, “Would you be a dear and shut the light off again on your way back out?”

It’s her turn to say “Oh, my” now, but bless her heart, she does flick the light switch back off, but not before shooting me one parting look, and I swear in that last lingering second, I see that she recognizes my hunger because she’s felt it at some point in her life, too, and she winks at me before they’re gone and I feel confident that Auntie and Uncle have truly gotten some bang for their buck on their New York City vacation. Nick and I could become goodwill ambassadors for the city now that the  p**n o shops on 42nd Street are gone. Must make mental note to contact mayor.

Darkness has been returned to us, but the moment, the heat, is over. Because Nick speaks in a normal voice instead of a whisper, and he says, “Maybe we’re not ready for this yet?” His sentiment is serious—and right—yet somehow we’re laughing, too, laughing at the absurdity of the situation, and maybe laughing with relief that the absurdity allowed the situation not to go further than it did.

Aunt Hildy must have sent my brain back into the room when she left it because I am reaching for my shirt and for Salvatore as Nick puts his shirt back on. I can’t believe how grateful I am to have been caught. I want him so very much, but it’s too soon. I have to figure, with this many stops and starts, surely this train will pull out of the station eventually. What’s the big f**king rush?