Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

him to Molina and every other corner, excused his absences to herself, accepted his apologies, and understood and understood and understood until she took the word for her middle name.
    Suddenly, she couldn’t see or touch the past. Only the present. She could see only Matt. Feel only him. And nothing about that seemed wrong, only absolutely, infectiously, incontestably right.
    The gardenia scent enveloped her, enveloped him. It swirled on the dry night air like a drug.
    Something brushed her temple. An insect. No. Someone’s lips.
    Her cheek. Her chin. Her lips.
    They were kissing. And kissing. Separating and touching. Tilted this way. That way. Again. Scent and sound. Feet stepping together. Apart. Lips together apart. Always new. Testing. Tasting. Slow dancing on the desert. Surprise and collusion. Collaboration in rhythm. No missteps. Perfect harmony.
    Slow dancing.
    Just me...
    And my...
    He lifted her up on top of the car hood again. Better.
    Liquid gardenia moonlight. Radio at the midnight hour.
    Temple knew better. But she couldn’t think of a better way to be. Matt matched her. Motion for motion. Surrender for surrender. She thought of hovering humming birds darting at blossoms. So swift, so graceful in their elegant hunger.
    Separation. Intermission. When it came, it seemed unnatural.
    “I’ve thought about it,” Matt whispered.
    Whispering in a desert was ludicrous but it was the only appropriate response to this infinitely delicate, devastating situation.
    “I want it to go fast. I want it to go slow.”
    Seconded. Jimmy Buffet was singing about a slow boat to China. He knew sailing ships.
    “I decided slow.”
    “Slow,” she repeated. Dutifully. Running a very slow tongue tip along his upper lip.
    And she had to wear this balloon of a dress meant to keep her from feeling anything below the waist. That was then, this was now.
    She pushed her upper teeth into his lower lip and felt his hands convulse on her waist.
    A finger, or thumb, ran down the long zipper at the back.
    Desert air struck her spine with the shock of hot water.
    His hand was hotter.
    “Slow,” he said.
    Oh, yes. Oh, no. Vive la différence!
    “So,” she said, remembering certain concerns, very remote. “What about your religious whatever?”
    He let them pull apart.
    “I am not going to mention you in confession.”
    “Charmed, I’m sure.”
    “No. I’m serious. I won’t deny what happens with us. But—”
    But. Always but. Temple opened her eyes. She was staring up at a lot more stars than she’d ever glimpsed in the overlit city she called home. Because Matt’s hair was brushing her cheek, and his lips were on her throat, her shoulder, her small claim to cleavage.
    “So I’ve figured it out,” he said, lifting his face to hers.
    She breathed softly onto his mouth. “How? You still can’t sleep with anyone outside of marriage.”
    “We get married.”
    “Married?” That snapped her out of Foreplay 101.
    “Yes. Civilly. Electra could do it. Would love to. I finally realized: this is Nevada. People marry instantly here. If you’re not satisfied—”
    “Shut your mouth. On me.”
    “We can divorce.”
    “Divorce?”
    “Or... if not, we marry again. Church ceremony. Catholic. Unitarians are easy when it comes to ecumenical. In the Twin Cities or Chicago or Milwaukee halfway in between. White gown, ring bearer, relatives, everything.
    “You’d marry me civilly first so I can have a test run?
    “Right. No strings, no obligation. You said modern women needed free samples. Of sexual compatibility, I assume. I can’t blame them. I am something of a freak.
    “Freaking nuts. In a very sweet way.”
    And having said the word sweet, Temple needed to taste it again.
    “What about your Catholic conscience?” she asked finally.
    “We’d be married in the eyes of the law. I think I can fudge a bit. I spent so many years not fudging.”
    “Matt.” She pushed him away. That was against her religion, which was easy, he said, but she pushed him away with a surge of self-control.
    “I’m on the pill. That’s against your religion, right?”
    “Right. But your religion isn’t my religion. I suppose in the name of ecumenical tolerance... You’re on the pill?” This appeared to give him either pause or an infusion of fresh motivation.
    “We have a lot of issues, Matt. Children. Like I may not be ready. Or... not.”
    “I may never be ready. People work that out. Forget the this or that. That’s what had