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He turned her, after a while, drew her up so she was astride him, and settled his hands at her hips, and let her take over the pace. She rode him slow, rolling against him, grinding down where she needed it, the depth of him from above almost too much and exactly enough, her hands spread on his chest, his eyes going up and down her in the lamplight like he was memorising her for an exam, her name said low every so often like a thing he was checking was still there. And somewhere in the middle of it, sitting over the boy with his hands at her waist and the whole night ahead and the last train gone, she started to cry.

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