Expecting

We haven't slept together in six weeks—I'm keeping track. In bed, she says, "Let's try."

I bleat my Yoda voice: "There is no try.Do, or do not." She groans, strips to her socks.

"I'll brush my teeth," I say.           "Do you have to talk?"

"Sorry," I say.       "And don't apologize."

I click the lamp. It feels like exercisestraining for the right angle. My back cracks—"Like this?" I ask. "Or this?"

           After, she yawns:"It's cold in here." I pinch the sheet betweenmy toes, sliding it up to cover her.

"Am I still beautiful?"       "Of course you are,but I have to pee." I peck her damp forehead.

"Did it feel different?" she asks.           "Crowded."