That night, back at his apartment, he dragged his sleeping bag out onto the balcony. He gazed at the myriad stars. Though it was the same show, in its forever season, he never tired of it. The back and forth lapping of the nearby strait lulled him to sleep.

In the morning, he walked over to Chetzamoka Park. No one was there. He planted himself in the center of the gazebo and closed his eyes. In the distance, the faint bong of a buoy marked the beginning of his sit. Quiet embraced him, and the Buddhist ohm became an ahh of contentment. He entered a deep state of meditation. When he was done, he rose and left. It was Sunday; church was over.

Later he picked up April by bicycle. They stopped at the Co-Op and grabbed some picnic items: sparkling water, plump grapes, rustic bread, Brie and salami. Jerry stowed it away in his backpack. Off they headed to Fort Warden, a former military training ground, now a state run cultural center and park. 

Leaving their bikes, they picked up a trail that wended its way through the thick woods and headed towards the bluff. Along the way they explored a bunker, dank and dark, with slits through which to spy outside. They veered off the trail onto a much less used spur that led them to the wood’s edge. A pond lay ahead in a field of tall grass. A few cows loitered; an egret balanced motionless at the water’s edge. 

April draped a blanket on a clear spot. Jerry pulled out the food. 

“I have something for you,” said Jerry.

From a side pocket he pulled out something small enough to keep hidden in his closed hand. He extended this out to her and held it there. He looked up and met her inquiring eyes. She reached out and tapped his hand with her finger. He turned it over and opened.

A necklace awaited her. Small jade green beads interrupted by an occasional black bead surrounded a brilliant, clear crystal set in a beaded socket. 

“I made it,” Jerry said.

“It’s beautiful.”

He lowered it over her head and pulled her hair out from it so the crystal rested just below her neck. It pointed towards her heart. 

“Thought the bead color would look good on you.”

She smiled, always the contained smile, never revealing her cards. “Thank you.”

When they finished eating they lay side by side on the blanket enjoying the warmth of the sun. Jerry’s hand inched over till he felt hers. Ever so slightly the side of his hand pushed into hers, and she pushed back. He interlaced his fingers through hers. They continued to lay there. April’s belly rose and fell as if she were running. He turned onto his side. She turned her face towards him. They kissed. Energy surged from her lips down to Jerry’s toes, yet she was in no hurry. She was there, steady, to taste, to breathe, to feel. This was new to Jerry. He was used to making love in a hurry, as if there were a train to catch. Not so, April. Her tempo was largo. Jerry’s hands were dry, and, to his relief, his penis was hard.

The erotic of the woods  —  the caress of a gentle breeze, the naked manzanita bark, the salty ocean foam  — embraced them,. Time was no longer the nemesis, not something to be endured, but savored. Here he would never ask if someone had forgotten to ring the bell, if someone had fallen asleep. Yes, here, time was no longer hell but eternal heaven.