Time has banked the fire that once burned so
brightly between us. It still simmers just below the surface of our
lives and occasionally flares at a word, a touch, a smile, but we
are no longer the hot lovers we were before. When we make love now
it’s a gentle affair, languid and slow, the movements careful like
turning the crumbling pages of an ancient book. Most evenings we
settle for lying close together, Jim’s arms around me, my body
clutched tight against his. There will come a time when one or the
other of us finally lies alone, maybe sooner than we care to think,
and the thought of going on without him terrifies me. I’ve lived
with him for so long now I can’t imagine anything else. So I smooth
over his forgetfulness, these little spells that seem to come more
frequently,
