He hadn’t seen her naked in a year and three days; he had kept careful count in his misery, in his loneliness, in his anger and rage and horror and careful, calculated, intricate sadness that had nicked his heart moment by moment like a metronome with a blade.  She had left—she had said all those things, and then she had left …

But she was here now.  Did it matter, everything else?  There was a part of him screaming that he needed to sit down and talk through things, to sort everything neatly into the appropriate categories, to hear the words “I’m sorry” and “I forgive you,” even though he wasn’t sure which phrase really belonged to which of them—maybe each to both.

But he couldn’t think, could hardly breathe.  Didn’t want to think.  Just wanted to be with her, touching her, letting their skin press together, letting their…