How, when I met him at his house, I would stand at the front door and knock, very formally, occasionally checking my watch for effect in case the neighbors might be watching; and he would open the front door, his face wiped clean of anything except casual politeness; and I would step inside his�I mean their�house, feeling tentative and awkward. How I would walk past him and set my bag down on a chair. How I would try very hard not to look at the photos on the walls, especially not the black and white wedding photo of him exuberantly kissing his wife (but I couldn�t help liking that photo at the same time. It mocked me, but it also reassured me). Perhaps I�d say hello to Luke the dog or perhaps I�d just stand, cupping my elbows in my palms, my body trembling and unfamiliar. How he would walk over to me and enfold me in a slow, warm embrace that would last a long time. He would rock me slightly like a child and I would press my cheek against his chest and feel the blood beating more slowly beneath my skin, as he intended. How I would lift my face to be kissed, whispering his name and knowing I shouldn�t whisper his name and whispering it anyway.
That's how it was.