"We've been here before," she says.
"Of course," he replies. "We live here."
"No, not here. Not physically here in the bedroom, in the house. I mean this. You and me. We've been here."
"Hold my hand," he says. "Look in my eyes. I am telling you that we live here."
"You don't understand," she says.
He draws her closer, their eyes, their mouths now inches apart. "This is our bedroom. Here. This is our home. We live in this house, this two-story house," he says. "We live on this street with trees and barking dogs and trash cans. We live in this town with people and buildings and traffic. We live in this world. Together, I mean. You and me in this world."
"Yes, in this world," she says. "Here. In this town with a river down the middle and a train that goes underground. In this street with a crossing guard on the corner. This house with two stories."
He caresses her neck and her cheek. They kiss and they undress and they make love on the bed and they sleep.
In the morning there is coffee and a shower, no breakfast and work. In the day there are text messages and an e-mail. That night there is dinner and television and wine and in the bedroom there is a feeling and there are assurances and again there is love.
