We live to reach the middle of each other, even after an argument. The best is when I straddle his lap, wrapping my arms around his head, his mouth to my ear. It feels impossible to be closer to anyone than I am to him when we do this, when I can clasp him inside me, pulling gently. And it is during lovemaking, sometimes rowdy enough to be called fucking and sometimes gentle enough to be called prayer, that we loosen our holds on ourselves enough to confess that this has never happened before, to either one of us, maybe not to anyone else ever, and we hope against hope, with gritted teeth,
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