Many a night I woke to the murmer of paper and knew (Dad) was up, sitting in the kitchen with frayed King James – oh, but he worked that book; he held to it like a rope ladder.

Most people who are would each not be in love with their partner, if they did not have the kind of genitals they have.

The sound of her breathing reminded me, as it so often did, of how vulnerable she was. And how vulnerable we were because of how much we loved her. The fear – that something could happen to her at any moment, something I’d be helpless to stop – had become so omnipresent in my life that I sometimes pictured it growing, like a third arm, out of the center of my chest.

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