When they had sex again, somewhere near the end — because his throttling was extra sensory after she’d been three months without another man and because she was near to breaking into blossom — she said, Oonooo. Or so she thinks. But she is right. She knows what she said because she remembers everything, even the bad things — especially the bad things. It wasn’t that this was a bad thing or that he was a bad thing, it was just that orgasm with someone she didn’t really love anymore brought disturbance. This would have to be the last. She had to get on with her life, but even more, he had to get on. He should take piano lessons or read some Buddha, but he seriously had to leave her alone.

When they had sex again, somewhere in the middle, she told him she loved him, though it came out garbled as, Ioveooo. Or so he thinks. It made him happy and he instantly called what they were doing love-making, not acid-refucks. The rest of their time conjoined felt spectacular, a new beginning. They were alive with love. His doubts ceased and just before their orgasms he planned an itinerary for their once-postponed Southwest trip. He’d even buy the more expensive digital camera. Now that they were having sex again, he’d be fitter, more attractive without a shirt.