We know it's going to be our last fuck. I'm feeling sentimental about it and I tell him we have to refer to it as making love. I'm feeling sentimental about love, and I tell myself my next lover and I will always refer to it as making love.

I let my clothes drop to the floor by the side of the bed.

I tell myself I'm past fucking. But still, we're doing it.

Andy drops his clothes to the floor on his side of the bed. Last night's clothes, and the clothes of almost-last nights cover the floor at the end of the bed.

We lie naked in bed, anticipating last, passionate strokes and loud parting steps. "Should I put some music on?" he asks.

"Did you bring in the Soul Asylum CD?"

"We've been listening to that all weekend," he says.

"I know," I say, "So that CD is ruined for the rest of our lives. Let's not ruin another."