That is the thing about living in the present, and only the present, it is a run-on sentence. And Henry was a perfect pause in the story. A chance to catch her breath. She does not know if it was love, or simply a reprieve. If contentment can compete with passion, if warmth will ever be as strong as heat. But it was a gift. Not a game, or a war, not a battle of wills. Just a gift. Time, and memory, like lovers in a fable.
