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towards my wife. When she too had been to the bathroom and switched off her lamp and murmured a drowsy, “Good night, sleep tight,” turning her back towards me, I slid across and put my arm about her and nestled up close. Compliant as ever, she turned again and I levered my other arm beneath her.
    â€œAren’t you feeling sleepy?” she asked.
    â€œNot a bit.”
    â€œMe, I’m feeling sleepy.”
    â€œYou won’t do in a moment. I’m in a mood to make you sing!
    Every inch of you.”
    â€œThat’s good,” she said. “And I think I know what every inch of me is going to sing.”
    â€œWhat?”
    She gave a yawn. “ Let’s Put Out The Lights And Go To Sleep .”
    Junie had a sense of humour but she wasn’t generally witty. Her sally was so spontaneous and surprising, possibly as much so to herself as to me, that we got the giggles. We rolled about in utter helplessness until it really did begin to hurt, and even after that our laughter kept resurfacing. I was reminded of the lyric from another song: ‘You’ve got a sense of humour…and humour is death to romance!’ But Mr Berlin had it wrong; or at least in this case he had. Junie was so aroused by our merriment and by the pleasure of her own success, aroused in both its senses, that she sat up and took off her nightdress while I was still wiping away my tears. She slipped down again and I felt her rounded breasts and radiant warmth, both especially glorious on first contact, move in and settle against my chest. I let out a long and well-contented sigh.
    â€œI wish you’d learn to sleep nude.”
    â€œIt’s too cold.”
    â€œNot tonight. I think summer’s on the way.”
    â€œBesides. You know I don’t like to be looked at.”
    â€œBut that’s silly. You’ve got a nice body.”
    â€œPodgy.”
    â€œNo. It feels wonderful.”
    â€œI’m glad you think so. You feel good, as well.”
    In essence, we’d had this conversation often.
    â€œIn what way do I feel good?” This was, ostensibly, a new inquiry. “Explain why I feel good.”
    â€œYou just do.”
    â€œBut why? I know why you feel good. You’re all powdery and soft and comfortable.”
    â€œComfortable!”
    â€œLike a peach, with its warm and fragrant bloom. Ripe deliciousness, juicy perfection. I wanna be a wasp!”
    Yet the buzz I made was more like that of a bee; and the lip-smacking little nips were probably like those of no insect or animal on earth.
    Junie giggled again and feigned alarm at falling prey to so resolute a sucker. Feigned anxiety, too. “But won’t fruit that’s ripe and juicy be getting near its sell-by date?”
    â€œNonsense! Never!”
    â€œThat’s not the way I look at things when I’m walking round Sainsbury’s.”
    â€œAnd not just any fruit!” I insisted. “Weren’t you paying attention? I was being specific.”
    â€œYes. I was a lovely, dusted, hothouse peach! I don’t mind you being specific.”
    â€œWell, then. Specifically …” I began to itemize; the lyric poet might here have slipped away a little but every part I singled out received a fondle and a kiss, and Junie murmured happily with each enjoyable stopover. “Was that specific enough? Well, now it’s your turn,” I said.
    â€œOh, it’s just the overall effect,” she replied. “I’m like the person who says I know what I like but can’t really give you all the reasons.”
    I didn’t need to say that, again, this fell some way short. Miss Martin would not have marked it highly.
    â€œAll right, let me think now… Specific reasons?… Because you’re exactly like Samson,” she began, “all hard and lean and strong , with lovely broad shoulders and a lovely broad chest and large biceps…and just the right amount of body