He gives me more. Keeps going. Doesn’t stop, and I take it all. Even when he’s done, I don’t stop. Not until he goes slack and falls out of me.

And then I collapse on his frame and his hands slide into my hair and his breath huffs on my temple and mine on his chest, and we’re tangled in the blankets and sweaty and the handcuffs dangle from the bedposts.

And I know what’s off, what’s niggling in my side like a thorn.

He’s thinner. Not significantly. But I know every centimeter of his body better than I know my own, and I know for a fact he’s dropped weight.

But then, so have I, in his absence. Maybe, like me, he stays busy so he doesn’t have to miss me. He’d forget to eat entirely when he’s writing, if not for me.

The Band-Aid is gone, and there’s no sign of a scratch. More of a poke. A small round hole, scabbed over. Days old.

It niggles at me. But he’s my husband and he would never lie to me.

Despite it being noon-ish on a Thursday, we sleep. I don’t sleep well without him, nor he without me. So we make up for the week by crashing hard, after our vigorous reunion.

When I wake up, it’s late afternoon. Sunshine is more orange-gold than yellow. His side of the bed is empty. He comes out of the bathroom, naked. Lean, hard, beautiful. Soft brown hair, usually neatly parted, now messy and scraped back. Stubble on his jaw. Patches of silver streak the stubble near his temple, over the back of his jaw, near his earlobe. He’s only forty-one, but his father was almost totally silver by thirty-five so it’s not unusual. I love it.

His abs stand out more starkly, even though he hates working out and rarely does more than an occasional jog—to fight the sedentary nature of the job of being a writer, he says.

Abs, ribs.

I notice for the first time that there’s a tray on the foot of the bed. Two bowls of thick Greek yogurt sprinkled with granola, blueberries, cut strawberry quarters. A bagel each, liberally slathered with thick cream cheese. Two mugs, our special mugs, bought at a gift shop in Carmel-by-the-Sea, California, on our honeymoon. The mugs are hand thrown ceramic, each inscribed with “My beloved is mine” on one side, the inscribed words painted deep scarlet. On his, on the opposite side: “And I am hers.” And on mine, “And I am his.”

He’s made us lattes. My mother gave us an espresso machine for our last anniversary, and he has become very serious about his latte making. And I’m not going to argue—he makes a great latte, and god knows I love me a nice sugar-free hazelnut almond milk latte.