Ana tightened her grip on my arms. She’d cheered up a little. “Maybe we’ll meet again, when I’ve become a respectable lady. And you’re single.”

I wanted to agree, but there was no answer I could make that wouldn’t be disloyal to Sa’afia. Or to the State of California, whose public I served. So I said what was soonest mended: “Well.” 

She laughed suddenly. “Not too respectable. I’d just look respectable. Except when I was home with you. I’d – I’d shock you.”  

I imagined Ana, waiting for me naked and on her knees, by the front door. I shook that vision away. 

She saw my headshake and misunderstood it. She  protested. “No really! I’d be waiting for you when you got home. I’d be all naked, and on my…” 

“Okay. Stop that now.” Our visions of porno domestic bliss were so similar. Ana smiled, watching me. She couldn’t have her parole officer, but at least she could go on torturing him.

“Ana?” 

“Yes, Jaime?” 

“When you stayed the night on my couch, did you…” She waited, head tilted, a mild frown, waiting to see what I was asking. A woman relaxed, frank and open, with no secrets. I stopped, watching her.  

“Well, did you get up in the night? And get into bed with Sa’afia and me?” 

Ana held my arm again. “Oh, you must have had a good dream.”