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Page 46.
 “Still sad,” Emma said, “but glorious. A lot of grand passion.”
“All of literature is the love story,” Marc said. “I’ve thought about that, and further realized that all of life is the love story. We are born, we live, and we die, all of it in hope that we will have that grand, life-altering love story.”
“With children,” she said faintly, looking at the ceiling.
“I haven’t gotten there yet.”
“Neither have I.”
“Are you sad?”
“Numb.” She switched back. “Was that really a girl you saw in a bar?”
“It is a thousand I have seen in bars.
“Do I have a tan and tennis face?”
“Honestly?”
“Lie to me or tell the truth. I don’t care, as long as I am with you.”
“You have everything in that poem, and more if that’s possible. I love you because maybe, for the first time, Emma, I’m not just a lonely dude glued to a wall, watching such drama playing out in other people’s lives. I’ve loved and been loved, had and lost, but nothing like this affair with you. I worship you, my pharaonic dancing girl. Your beauty is powerful beyond words. You are the gravity of planets, the light of stars, the reflection in moonlight.”
She smiled. “The face in a puddle.”
“Yes.” He stroked her cheek. “My face.”
She touched his cheek in turn, looking up warm-eyed, with a little smile. “Only yours, my love. This face is yours to love and kiss.”
They grew tired and slipped under the covers, resolving that there would be another poetry lesson some time soon.
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