Even after sixteen hours in the air, which in another century would be akin to killing a buffalo or scaling a low mountain range to get to me, he lifted me into his arms and planted kisses all over my face, head and neck. “Baby, Baby,” he whispered, warm and urgent. I glimpsed us bound to each other in the hall mirror, the arrangement of white tulips he’d sent on the table underneath. We looked like a greeting card. Holding onto each other, it was as if we were lovers of years standing, reuniting after a divisive civil war that had torn us apart. Or, perhaps, as in a soap opera storyline when one of our so-called “friends” leads one of us to believe the other has cheated; then, upon learning the truth, we rush into each others’ arms begging forgiveness. In other words, we clung to each other desperately. We stood in the foyer, hugging for a long time, taking in as much of each other as we could with our clothes on. “I kept looking out the window,”
