‘It’s the date of Emily’s conception,’ I said, looking her right in the eye. ‘And this one?’ I traced another stretch mark. ‘This one is...Emily’s name. And this one is my name.’ She was trying not to admit she was pleased to hear these things, the way a small child tries to remain angry when a parent has them on the verge of laughter. Her mood had improved, her posture, too, as she was no longer huddled into a near-fetal crunch. I moved my hand to her chestnut-brown nipple. I placed my hand. This time my hands wandered on her back, held her bottom cheeks, cupped them and gently squeezed them. With my palm I was alternatively rubbing her bottom very gently. And I did not make any attempt to kiss her. After parting from the embrace she went to kitchen brought some sweet and gave me to eat. I wanted to share it with her and she refused to eat. I took her forcibly in to my arms, pressed the sweet against the teeth. She tightly closed both the jaws and I could not make her eat. In the. More

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