It is Sunday Morning and I am lying in bed in my husband’s arms. Already this morning my younger son has been in to (1) show that his nose was running; (2) demand to know where his clothes were (in his chest, of course; I’m not the type who’d expropriate her five-year-old’s clothing); (3) inquire who would tie his shoes if and when he wanted to put them on; (4) inform us that his shoes had disappeared. The older one came in to say he was going out, but he is back now and is engaged with the younger one in the ritual, earsplitting, heartbreaking Weekend War. The dog is barking loud and encouragingly—she always enjoys the fights and does what she can to provoke them and help prolong them. The neighbors have awakened to crashing strains of Sly and the Family Stone. I embrace my husband licentiously and remove my earplugs, muttering words of carnal intent. “You’re disgusting, filthy, obscene,” he assures me. “But at least you’re a sex maniac.” I stroke him harder—kindnesses like that have kept us going through seven years of marriage.

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