She turns over, making me grunt. Though she hasn't grown much, I'm painfully aware there's a baby just hanging out in her body.
"I love you," She whispers.
I sigh, stroking her baby hairs, rubbing her back. But I don't say anything.
Because I don't think she does. I think she likes the idea of me, and she likes that I love her because it makes her feel better about everything in her life that's bad.
I think she likes the idea of love. Just not necessarily with me.
"I love you too," I say. She turns over, nuzzling neck.
"Make love to me."
And I smile, and oblige. I touch her how she likes, where she likes it. She stops my hand.
"No," she sighs. "Not like that. Like you used to."
Like I used to? Is there any difference?
"Just touch me, feel me, love me," She begs.
"I am, Wendy," I
