When my wife slunk out to the bathroom in her underwear, damp and rosy from the shower, I let out an exaggerated wolf whistle.

The whistle cracked the serious mask of a face into a smile, but something about the

peak and valley from the tone didn't sit right with me.

My bedroom faded from view.

I'm 8 or 9 and staring into the face of another little boy. It's Nolan, my best friend.

Our mouths are puckered into o's, and we are both blowing.

Who is Nolan? Do I know Nolan?

He is pushing a shrill, reedy sound from high in his throat.

My breath is nothing but a rush of soundless air.

Don't worry Sam, you'll get it, he tells me. My name's Jacob. Who's Sam?

I blinked and it vanished. Jacob? Who's Sam?

I blinked and it vanished.

Poppy crawled into bed and slotted herself into the slice between my arm and my torso.

She ran a finger down my bare chest, a prelude and a promise.

Pops, I said, have I always been able to whistle?

She frowned at me,

at me, Of course you have, you whistled at me just like that the day we met.

Did I?

I couldn't remember.

She crept closer, her hair sweeping my skin,

but I was trying to grasp that flittering vision.

It's just... I don't think I ever learned to whistle."

...