I stand looking down, not very far down because sitting he is almost as tall as I am standing, looking down at this man who writes poetry about how beautiful I am.

Needing to act I place my left knee on the couch to the right of his right leg, the right leg of this man who writes poetry about how beautiful I am when I am pregnant.

Very carefully I swing my right leg to the left of his left leg, my child-rounded belly and milk-swollen breasts between us, between me and this man who writes poetry about how beautiful I am when I am pregnant but who does not see me only as a mother figure.

My blouse is purposefully partially undone as it was the first time I teased him so many years ago, teased this man who writes poetry about how beautiful I am when I am pregnant but who does not see me as a mother figure, this man who does not ignore me now that I am mother and about to be again.

Kneeling on his lap I hold his head in both hands, the head of this man who writes poetry about how beautiful I am when I am pregnant but who does not see me as a mother figure, this man who does not ignore me now that I am mother and about to be again, this man who does not avoid me by working late.

I hold his head in both hands and kiss him gently, in appreciation, my lips brushing his lips, the lips of this man who writes poetry about how beautiful I am when I am pregnant but who does not see me as a mother figure, this man who does not ignore me now that I am mother and about to be again, this man who does not avoid me by working late, or spend all his time socializing with my former school friends.

He responds forcefully, just as forcefully, as I had hoped and implied, his tongue in my mouth, his hands freeing and then cupping my naked breasts, the hands of this man who writes poetry about how beautiful I am when I am pregnant but who does not see me as a mother figure, this man who does not ignore me now that I am mother and about to be again, this man who does not avoid me by working late, or spend all his time socializing with my former school friends, this man who I will not go further with.

Nor will we ever speak of this out loud. I do not allow us to speak of these things, but we will have this memory forever, of me on his lap, his hands on my naked breasts, the unborn child with us more than between us, our mouths locked, out tongues intertwined as I rock gently back and forth. We will have this memory forever, me and this man who writes poetry about how beautiful I am when I am pregnant but who does not see me as a mother figure, this man who does not ignore me now that I am mother and about to be again, this man who does not avoid me by working late, or spend all his time socializing with my former school friends, this man who I will not go further with, this man who is not my husband.