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kitchen. He set it down next to the forks and saucers in the middle of the table.
    “Dig in,” I said.
    Adam was still standing behind me. I sat down. Shasta started dishing up the Pavlova and passing around the plates.
    Adam put his hands on my shoulders and started making little circles on my neck with his thumbs. I fel t myself go instantly red. I shrugged my shoulders a little, but he ignored my nonverbal order to cease and desist.
    Shasta and Brad didn’t seem to notice anything unusual. They sat calmly eating their Pavlova.
    “This is delicious,” Shasta said. “You really made this from scratch?”
    “Yes. It’s pretty easy to make.”
    Adam is forever describing things as, “easy to make,” a statement he always follows up with the list of 32 separate ingredients and 15 steps necessary to make those “easy” recipes.     
    “Really? How do you make it?”
    Adam started telling her. He’d left my neck—finally—and had pulled up a chair so close it was bumping into mine. He started running one hand up and down my spine while he talked. Every once in a while, I’d make another attempt to subtly shrug him off, and he’d pretend not to notice.           
    Shasta and Brad didn’t stay as long as I’d expected . Adam stayed behind to help me with the dishes.
    “How was your week?” he asked.
    He doesn’t usually bother with small talk.
    “Fine.” Then I realized I was doing the exact same thing I’d mentally criticized Brad for, so I added. “Really good, actually!”
    “Oh, did you meet someone?”
    “I met a lot of people. New people come through my office all the time.”
    “You know what I mean?”
    “Yes, I do know what you mean. And no, I did not.”
    “That’s probably a good thing. I don’t think you are ready to meet anyone.”
    “I don’t know why you persist in taking such an active interest in my love-life.”
    “If I don’t take an active interest in your love-life, who else will?”
    He had a point there. We’ve been friends for years, and although I go out on dates—half of which are Adam’s idea— they never end up amounting to much.
    Adam put the last dish into the dishwasher, poured in the soap and started it up.
    I was wiping down the table. He came and took the dishrag out of my hand.
    “Ready?” he said.
    “For what?”
    “More aversion therapy .”
    “Is this really necessary?”
    It is true. I don’t like random people touching me, but I’m beginning to think this current skittishness has a lot more to do with my reaction to Adam in particular. I couldn’t very well explain that, though, without getting us into some very weird territory. 
    “Maybe not enjoying being touched is a good thing,” I countered. “Lots of men would appreciate not being expected to stick around after sex.”
    “You ’re looking for the kind of man who kicks you out of bed right after sex?”
    I d on’t think so, but it has been so long since I’ve had a man in my bed, period, that who knows what I want these days.
    “Close your eyes.”
    We were still standing in the kitchen. I just looked at Adam. He was standing on the other side of the table. I kept my eyes firmly open.
    “I know what I’m doing,” he said.
    He didn’t. I was quite certain of that.
    Adam continued. “How many men have I set you up with over, say, the last year?”
    “ I don’t know. Ten. Fifteen.”
    “They can’t all have been duds, can they?”
    “None of them liked me.”
    “I think quite of few of them would have liked you just fine, if you’d betrayed the slightest bit of interest in them.”
    I noticed that someone had dropped a bit of salmon on the floor under the table. I got down on the floor to get it. When I stood up, Adam was standing right in front of me. I backed up and bumped into the table.
    “I have a theory about you,” Adam said. He wasn’t touching me, but I still seemed to be having trouble breathing. “I think whoever manages to finally break