He wakes in mid-night, alone although she sleeps in the same bed, so emotionally distant, disinterested, that she might be light years away, circling a different, barren sun. She dislikes herself, and so won’t let him love her.

He thinks he’d like to hold her astride his mouth, or bury his tongue and fingers between supine, spreading thighs. Memories of how she tasted on his tongue, felt around his fingers, are at once deep loss and rich treasure. Twenty years past the last time, the subject well beyond discussable, he cannot know if she remembers, still hopes she does, and that she remembers past as pleasant.