The best bit isn’t that chill when his eyes darken; going-to-rain grey sweeping in to drench the green.
Nor the quiver as I wonder what he’ll do this time; something he knows I hate – and he always knows if it is – or something I can use.
It isn’t the beginning, the middle, or the end, when I’m enduring, obeying, performing as best I can.
It’s not even afterwards, when we fall into a sprawl, hands and mouths everywhere, saying ‘sorry’ and ‘thank you’ without words.
No. It’s knowing it’s all there, waiting for me, all the time.
It’s the certainty.
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