He won’t be fined for violating the lease agreement. He hardly understands the concept of violation. He likes baking. He likes this color. He pushes the roller up and down, side to side, a thousand mating asterisks, and glows from the exertion as if it taxes him as much as me. His carriage betrays his athleticism. He says he has no formal sporting background and doesn’t realize he’s bragging.

He caddied, if that counts. Sometimes, he said, the men would toss him a club and stand back grinning at the apple-green fairway. They taught him to golf, and he learned to demur if not aim for the rough so he wouldn’t lose tips.

He knows—of course he knows—that we’re breaking the lease agreement. He pretends to be stupid and I pretend to be innocent and our rollers suck and ooze.

But I wonder, after drinking hot chocolate and watching cartoons and trying on his girlfriend’s dresses and basking in her musk and shaving his neck and vandalizing his living room—I wonder if I’m one of those intentional misfires.