The water was warm and soothing, but now it's beginning to cool. You push your arms up, throwing out two streams of water, and grip the edges of the deep, bath tub.
You hoist yourself to a standing position as the water rushes and then drips off of you, and reach for the soft, thick towel as you step onto the bath mat. You dry your hair and then pat your face, slowly working your way down, lifting each arm, and each breast to dry yourself thoroughly.
You run the towel down your belly and then pause, gently smoothing with your left hand, feeling the gentle curve of your new bump. You smile, and then you feel your entire body flushing, with happiness, with pride, with victory.
You have created, and your husband in the kitchen doesn't know yet. And when he does find out, he still won't know the wonderful, precious truth. The truth that this is my baby growing in your fertile womb.
We created it together, during stolen Sunday afternoons, and furtive weekday evenings. From Five to Seven, the daily period when the married people of France don't question their spouses' whereabouts.
It took a long time, to get from meeting to acquaintance, to the first electric touch of your hand on my arm. I still feel those goosebumps of excitement.
My heart jumped whenever I saw you each morning, and your smile brightened. Then from acquaintance to friendship, to deep friendship. When was that first kiss? Late, after the office holiday party, after everyone else had gone. We stole into the supply room, and you turned your face up to mine and closed your eyes, and I knew that I must kiss you.