***

We bring each other gifts every day, a sharing of resources, to avoid going to the store. A cup of brown sugar, a portion of cinnamon. Two eggs. A box of Kleenex. Tylenol. A perfect, glorious tomato.

“What did you bring me today?” he asks. He opens the bag and pulls out an onion, four cloves of garlic, a carton of cream. “Celery!” he exclaims as he brings the fragrant stalks up to his nose.

He makes us supper, and I gaze at him standing in front of the range, stirring noodles into the frying vegetables. I look at his profile, at his stance, at the scruffy mop that has become of his hair. My heart expands and aches with love.

***

I express a longing for a massage. My shoulders, my lower back. My neck. The aches that form from working at a make-shift workstation.

One evening he suggests that I go into the bedroom. I wander down the hall and see that he’s set up for a massage. He tells me to remove my clothes, to drape myself with the sheet, and that he’ll be back in a couple of minutes.

This pretend massage. He folds back the sheet and presses into my shoulder with practiced hands. He works against my skin and muscles, stretching the fascia and leaning against my spine until it gently cracks.

Eventually his touch changes and we move into making love, but I will not forget the first part. The part where he created something that I was missing and in doing so eloquently responded to my bid for affection.

The importance of imagination, when our worlds become smaller. The importance of appreciating small gestures. The importance of expressing love and tenderness.

***

One evening we walk out to the vacant cricket field. I do cartwheels across the level and firm rectangular pitch, and we lay back in the sun. Daisies dotting the lawn.