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attorney’s secretary told me: “We can say nothing of this matter until the appointed time.”
    Tamara called me every day. She was worried about Andrei’s disappearance. More than once, she cried over the phone. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that I thought Andrei had deserted her. I grunted noncommittal responses and sidestepped any suggestion that we should meet. I refused to follow Andrei’s transparent script, no matter how much it matched my own desires.
    The following Monday, I was startled to see Tamara sitting in the attorney’s waiting room. A few minutes later, we were both ushered into Tavernier’s office, wondering to each other what Andrei had planned for us this time.
    This is what we learned: Andrei was dead, had poisoned himself on the day he’d set us up to meet at the restaurant; Andrei was wealthy, worth millions of dollars, all of which was now ours ... in a joint account, no strings attached. Tavernier needed our signatures to make this official.
    In addition, Andrei bequeathed all of his writings to me, with instructions that I seek to publish them under my own name only and that, with his blessing, I should edit his works as I saw fit.
    There was a letter addressed to both of us; the attorney read it. It was terse.
    I had nothing more to write, it said.
    But that wasn’t true. In death, Andrei was writing the script of my and Tamara’s lives, and we followed every stage direction like fawning understudies.
    ~
    I almost speak, but Tamara shushes me. I can’t decipher her expression.
    She’s sitting on the floor, next to the couch. She looks away from me and into her lap. I hear the rustle of paper.
    I look down and see that she’s holding my manuscript. My novel.
    She starts to read. I cry.
    I cry because I see her mouth form the words that I’ve written, because I hear the tenderness in her voice when she speaks my words.
    She reads a few chapters. She takes her time. She forms the words carefully, imbues their articulation with a slow sensuality.
    Finally, she pauses. She looks at me, and she’s crying, too.
    She says, “I like it.”
    ~
    When I come back from my morning run, Tamara is still asleep. Her feet are sticking out from under the sheets. This is one of my favourite sights: tenderly domestic and deliciously sensual. I fantasize about straying from our scripted lives, about indulging in spontaneous intimacies outside the confines of our rituals, and...
    Fuck Andrei.
    I look at Tamara’s sleeping body and let the sight of her overwhelm me.
    I stoop down and kiss her toes. I slip my tongue between them, slide it around each one. I nibble on them.
    She moans, still asleep, and throws off the sheets.
    The sun hits her skin, from her nipples to just below her luxuriant pubes. The prospect of transgression makes my blood rush, but I rein in my impatience and move with slow but focused intensity.
    Cupping her heels, I raise her legs in the air. Below, I catch a glimpse of her moist vulva, framed by her butt cheeks and by the backs of her thighs. I bend down and breathe on her wetness. She gasps, still asleep.
    I smell her and close my eyes. Her pubes tickle my nose, and I can’t help laughing.
    That wakes her up.
    I fear her reaction to this unscheduled intimacy, but she opens her arms in invitation.
    I let go of her legs and fold myself into her sleepy embrace.
    “You’re sweaty,” she mumbles. I’m still wearing my jogging clothes. “I love your smell.” Have we broken free? Can we write our own lives? Together. Finally, truly, together.
    She disentangles herself and sits up. She hugs me, drowsily rubbing her face against my chest.
    She pulls off my T-shirt, and she runs her tongue from my belly button to my armpit.
    She squeezes my stiff cock through my shorts, and we both laugh.
    She smiles coyly, letting go of me, then runs her hand in circles around my crotch, never quite touching it. She gently bites my nipples.
    She moves as if to squeeze