He leans against the bathroom doorjamb, a silent observer, as she applies her makeup for work. Engrossed, she doesn't seem to notice him. She reaches for one of her tiny brushes, and he sees the swell of her breasts press against her blouse. The silken fabric of her slip rises along the back of her thighs as she moves. His chest pounds, and it is as if she hears, because she turns to him and smiles.

"What?" she says and returns to her mirror. She's darkening those long, thick eyelashes. He wonders how she keeps from poking herself in the eye.

"Nothing." She can't possibly understand how every little thing she does sends a thrill through him. He fingers the gold band on his left hand. Still shiny with its newness, yet it feels as if it has been there his entire life. Or that his life began two months ago when she slipped it on his finger. He wonders yet again what she sees in him, the carpenter—she of the steel and glass skyscraper world, he rooted to the wood and his tools.