There was one moment, I never loved him more. I never owned him less.

We were working on his house the way we were always working on his house, because
someday he'd sell it for a profit.  That day it was a fence for the back yard. 
It was June after a wet, wet spring, and we were glad for the sun and the heat.

We found the surveyor's marks and pounded our wooden stakes carefully inside the
property line, the heavy sledge raised and dropped with a whuff-thump,
whuff-thump.  We pulled the string tight and he fussed, as he always did: the
right knot, so we could save the string; sight it by eye as well, to compensate
for wind and the weight of the string.  It was a very long yard.

I peered down the string, lining up two stakes in the distance, looking at him in
his drab and stained work clothes.  The clothes were used and sturdy.  They were
known quantities.  Like him.  And I was proud that he let me help him. That he
trusted me, a slob and a fumblefinger and a faker in so many ways.

I repaid him a bit by coming up with a clever way to mark the post locations: an
X cut out of cardboard, we threw it on the ground every eight feet and sprayed
the spot with fluorescent orange paint. The smell of the paint was sharp in our
eyes and nostrils.  I watched as he drew his arm across his forehead, careless of
his part, his dark hair already starting to mat with perspiration.

We were using a hand-held auger for the postholes, and it was a mistake; I knew
it when I saw how much clay there was in the soil. He looked at me as if daring
me to comment on it; I didn't.  We had to work the auger together, it was a
tee-shape: a big wooden handle atop a metal post and a claw.  One of us would
stomp the claw into the earth, freeing the smells of the earth and of broken
grass. Then I took one arm of the tee and he took the other, and we heaved and
hauled and grunted.  To keep digging (the posts had to go three feet deep), we
reached across the bar and pulled down, our arms and hands touching.  It was
awkward.  We were clumsy at first, like new lovers. I loved it.

He had strong forearms with clearly-defined muscles that shifting as he adjusted
his grip. The wind caught and lifted the fine dark hairs.

After the second hole, our muscles ached.  After the fourth, they screamed.  The
sweat soaked through our shirts.  We stripped down to our undershirts, feeling
the honey sunlight pour down on us, drawing sweat and the winter's poisons from
our skin.  Sometime after that, we stopped noticing how much we hurt:  there was
only the moment, the two of us striving together.  I don't know how long that
union lasted.

Sometimes I think that the world exists only in these moments, and our desire for
continuity is so strong that we make up the connecting bits, the rest of time.

We stopped for lunch: fresh buns, cold meat, ripe plump tomatoes, fresh
strawberries, cold lemonade.  He took off his gloves and I admired his wide
strong hands.  We sat there at the end of the driveway, grimy-faced, elbows on
knees, together, watching the world walk by.

He said softly, "Should've gotten a power auger.  My fault."

I nodded, too tired to speak but happy. I could have told him then, told him how
I felt. But:

He nodded in the direction of a woman walking by. She wore shorts and a halter
top.  Her breasts jiggled as she walked. "I like the summer.  I like the sights."

I looked right at him and said, "Me too."

He didn't notice.  He was only building a fence.