It wasn't even eight o'clock and she was now alone, as well as ravenously hungry. And Tess loathed eating alone in restaurants. A character flaw, she knew, and a reproach to feminists everywhere, but there it was. She finished her drink, took care of Feeney's staggering bill, along with her own, then left. She could stop at the Eddie's on Eager, grab a frozen dinner for herself, maybe a stupid magazine to read in the bathtub. Damn Feeney. Her big night out had been reduced to no company, one gulped drink, and a frozen low-fat lasagna.

But when she reached her apartment thirty minutes later, the fragrant smells in the hallway came from her own kitchen, not Kitty's. Her nose identified lamb, hot bread, baking apples. She took the steps two at a time, leaping as wildly as Esskay had that morning.

Crow met her at the door, wrapping his lanky frame around her before she could take off her coat or put down the grocery bag.

"I didn't expect to see you here," she muttered into his scratchy wool sweater, hoping he couldn't see how pleased she was. "I left a message on your machine that I was going out with Feeney tonight."

"I closed for Kitty tonight, so I figured I'd let myself in and make some dinner. Worst case scenario, you'd come home from your drinking date all giggly and fun, I'd tuck you in, then eat lamb stew and apple pie for lunch tomorrow."

"Trust me, Feeney was neither giggly nor fun tonight."

Crow wasn't really listening. He was kissing her brow and her ears, patting her all over, always a little surprised to see her again, even in her own apartment.

"Your face is cold, Tesser," he said, using the childhood nickname she had given herself, a blending of her two names, Theresa Esther. A name reserved for family and very old friends. Crow was neither of those things, not in five months' time. He was twenty-three to her twenty-nine, a happy, careless twenty-three, with glossy black hair almost as long as hers, although usually with a green or red stripe, and a bounce in his walk. It still surprised her that she had to look up to see his thin, angular face, as if their age difference meant he must be shorter, too.

"What do you think of the new addition?" she asked, pointing with her chin toward Esskay, who was staring at Tess as if trying to place her.

"She's cool. Kitty and I took her out for a walk earlier, then made her some rice and steamed vegetables. She's a very old soul, our new dog."

Tess frowned. "Our" was a word to be avoided at all costs. Their rules of engagement-more precisely, their rules of disengagement-said no shared books or CDs, dutch treat for all meals out, and no joint purchases of any kind.

But all she said was: "I don't know why you made it rice and vegetables. I have a twenty-pound bag of kibble."

"I like to cook for my women," he said, pulling out her chair at the mission table that did double duty as a dining room table and Tess's desk. "Hey, did I tell you Poe White Trash has a gig Saturday?"

"Where?"

"The Floating Opera."

"I guess this means I can't request any Rodgers and Hart," she said, trying not to make a face. The Floating Opera was an ongoing rave with no fixed location, hop-scotching across the city-or, at least, its more fashionably decadent neighborhoods-according to a pattern understood only by its denizens. As a result, the F.O. had none of the amenities of a real club, such as alcohol, food, or bathrooms, and all the drawbacks: cigarette smoke, too-loud music, too-young crowd.

"Rodgers and Hart," Crow groaned. "We don't go in for that retro crap."

"Elvis Costello sang ‘My Funny Valentine.'"

"Tesser, Elvis Costello is old enough to be my father."

"But not old enough to be mine, right?"

He smiled, disarming her. "Was Feeney's mood contagious? Or are you itching for a fight tonight?"

"A little of both," she confessed, and, embarrassed by her crankiness, scooped up her stew meekly and quietly.

With dinner done, she put the bowls in the sink, only to have Crow snatch them back for Esskay, who made quick work of their leftovers. Crow patted the dog and thumped her sides. For a skinny dog, she had a lot of muscle tone: Crow's affectionate smacks sounded solid, drumlike.

"Is stew good for her, after all that rice and vegetables?" Tess asked, remembering Steve's dire predictions from the morning.

"Kitty had this book, in the ‘Women and Hobbies' section, on greyhounds," Crow said, rubbing Esskay's belly. The dog had a glazed look in her eyes, as if she might faint from pleasure. "It said they usually need to gain weight after they leave the track, so I don't think a little stew will hurt, although the woman who wrote the book recommended making your own dog food, from rice and vegetables. She also said you're suppose to put ointment on these raw patches, like for diaper rash."

The dog shoved her nose under Crow's armpit and began rooting around as if there might be truffles hidden in the crevices of his fraying thrift shop sweater. Crow laughed and gave the dog another round of smacks, then sang, in a wordless falsetto, "Rou-rou-rou."

Esskay answered back, in a higher key, the vowel sounds slightly more compact, "Ru-ru-ru."

"I'm not really a Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy fan," Tess said, turning on the stereo. Sarah Vaughan's voice filled the room, drowning out the Crow-and-canine duet. "And I'm beginning to feel like three's a crowd. Would you two like to be alone?"

Crow walked over to her and gave Tess's backside the same affectionate thump he had given the greyhound. Tess was solid, too, but meatier, so her tone was deeper, mellower.

"I'd put ointment on your raw patches if you had any," he whispered. "Do you have anything that burns, Tesser?"

Through her clothes, his hands sought out the places where bones could be felt-the ribs below the heavy breasts, the pelvis bones sharp in her round hips, the knobby elbows. He pulled her blouse out of her long, straight skirt and stuck one hand under the waistband, rubbing her belly as he had rubbed Esskay's. With the other hand, he traced the lines of her jawbone and her mouth, then moved to her throat and the base of her neck, where he freed the strands of her long braid.

"Do you like this, Tess?" She could only nod.

Sarah was running through the list of the things she didn't need for romance: Spanish castles, haunting dances, full moons, blue lagoons. The greyhound moaned to herself, softly now, almost in tune. "Ru-ru-ru." Tess's breath caught and she reached for Crow's face. Sex would seem almost less intimate than this, and therefore much safer.

"Tesser?" Crow held her wrists, forcing her to meet his gaze.

She waited, apprehensive about what he might say next. Afraid he would start lobbying to move in again. Afraid he would say he loved her. Afraid he would say he didn't.

Sarah sang that her heart stood still. Tess's was beating faster and faster.

"Let's go to bed," Crow said.