So Remember It, Lad. If Your Head

Only You," He Said, So Softly I Could Barely Hear Him. "to Worship Ye With My Body, Give Ye All The Service Of My Hands. To Give Ye My Name, And All My Heart And Soul With It. Only You. Because Ye Will Not Let Me Lie--and Yet Ye Love Me.

It Wasn't A Thing I Had Consciously Missed, But Having It Now Reminded Me Of The Joy Of It; That Drowsy Intimacy In Which A Man's Body Is Accessible To You As Your Own, The Strange Shapes And Textures Of It Like A Sudden Extension Of Your Own Limbs.

When You Hold A Child To Your Breast To Nurse, The Curve Of The Little Head Echoes Exactly The Curve Of The Breast It Suckles, As Though This New Person Truly Mirrors The Flesh From Which It Sprang.

Conflict And Character Are The Heart Of Good Fiction, And Good Mystery Has Both Of Those In Spades.

When The Day Shall Come That We Do Part," He Said Softly, And Turned To Look At Me, "if My Last Words Are Not 'i Love You'-ye'll Ken It Was Because I Didna Have Time.