That was before Leon and I had decided to be a nursing couple and had worked at bringing milk into my breasts. Actually, that was just about two years ago and it has been the most wonderful thing I think we could have done for our relationship. But we have never told anyone about it. Dinner went very well. The food tasted especially good, even if I do say so myself. We tried to catch up on what had been happening in each other's lives. Like I said, it had been a while since we had seen each other. Renee helped me clear the dishes from the table and Leon and Jim went into the living room to set up for a fierce game of Trivial Pursuit.At one point, Renee comment to me that I seemed to be glowing. She said that marriage must be agreeing with me very well these days. She asked me if maybe I was pregnant. "No, not pregnant, Renee. But things between Leon and I could not be better. We are so close. It is hard to explain." "Well, I wish you would let me in on your secret. Jim and I love. A door. Awink. A booth 'way in the back.Heels click on tiled floor.The heady smell of sauces simmering when you're hungry. An unexpectedfavorite on the menu. Bottle of wine. The little ceremony ofinspection, consideration, tiny sip. The nod. A gurgle, splash forwine. For me, for him. He floats his glass halfway across the table,cocks an eyebrow. A tiny clink. What was the toast?On the edge of a glass, a smudge of color.Mine.He sees my glance, sees me start. Gives me a little smile, I think it'ssupposed to be reassuring, as if to say, well, that's what women do,isn't it? No big deal. Whether with a kiss, or just a touch of lips,you leave your mark. My mark. Mine. I'm not invisible, not tonight, notmy night. On the wineglass, a smudge of red. Mine.Like surgeons, we cut in tiny strokes, carve this time into tiny bites.The fork pierces, carries. A little food, a sentence. A sip of wine, astory. Again, again. I write his biography. He writes mine. We don'tknow anything. We know.
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