It was sex, of course. Rachel and I had been fairly active, sexually, having sex four or five nights a week. We were trying for Child Number Three and...hoping it would be a boy. I missed the activity fairly rapidly, but it was part of missing Rachel. After a couple of weeks, I resumed masturbating, something I could do without issues at night in my room, surfing for porn with a pair of headphones and my laptop. Incredibly satisfying, it wasn’t, but I wasn’t ready to start hunting for Rachel’s. Carefully. As if you’re something precious, as if he knows that he’s consuming you with his passion — as if he knows that you’re losing yourself in him. In the blue depths of his eyes, mixed with intensity and longing and — deeper — unrestrained wildness, barely concealed now, are flickers of hurt, of past sadness not quite forgotten. Closer to the surface now, usually in check — but there, more visible. Raw. His sudden vulnerability draws you in further: you know the same expression is echoed. More

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