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over for me,” she said when she saw me with the camera. She mourned her lost youth. “From now on, it’s chicken broth and buckets of drool.” At that instant she looked to me more sensual than ever. Radiant and pink, with her red hair pulled back. I wanted to cuddle under a Buick with her. “Talk to me,” I said.
    â€œIt’s your fault I’m this way.”
    The flashcube sizzled.
    ______
    Perilous, the first year of our marriage. Several near breakups. I hated to remember it now, but I couldn’t forget in light of this permanent bond, this pencil-shaped new person that was about to be visited upon us.
    Our joint therapist had once described Susan’s restlessness as “low-level depression.” He said she was suffering from poor self-esteem, stemming from her childhood (her father was a stern Lutheran minister). “Until she corrects her self-image,” the doctor told us, “she can’t be happy.” This may have been the case, but it seemed to me at the time that Susie’s biggest problem was low-level horniness: a constant mild ache, wherever she was, to run her hands along the naked flesh of a stranger.
    I was fairly well-acquainted with this sort of thing myself. But I felt that a person had to be disciplined, otherwise you left sticky messes in your wake.
    For months after we’d introduced ourselves at college we circled each other warily. She was dating someone. A banker. My banker, as it happened. I was seeing several women. We felt an attraction, a grab, at the very least a tug – the emotional equivalent of a stubbed toe, perhaps. We had a series of coincidental half-meetings in restaurants and malls, hurried conversations, and one night, when we both failed to float safe excuses, a half-attempt at sex. Susan stopped us. She was still partially committed to the banker, she said, and could only go so far.
    I began to call her every day. I suggested we meet in disaster areas (earthquakes, tornadoes) where buildings and electrical power had been halved. We could sit together in candlelight, I said, sipping straight Half-and-Half (leaving it unfinished, of course) and listen to bootleg tapes I’d bought in high school. I had the Beatles in rehearsal: they ran through parts of songs, then quit. “I’ll only wear half my clothes if you’ll just wear half of yours,” I said.
    I had no romantic illusions about Susie. I was never intrigued by the mystery of unattainability. I simply felt lucky and at home when I heard her voice.
    After the wedding she’d sometimes insist, “I never wanted a husband.”
    â€œThen why did you marry me?” I’d say.
    She wouldn’t answer. She’d just look at me and repeat, “I never wanted a husband.”
    ______
    I went to the vet and asked her if I could prepare Meckie for the baby, so that animal and child wouldn’t be in each other’s way. She gave me a short list of tips.
    1) Before the Big Day arrives, expose your cat to small infants. If you can’t find a neighbor baby ask relatives and friends to videotape their children. Play the tapes for your pet .
    2) Familiarize your cat with baby smells. Powder, food, clothes. If possible, bring home a dirty diaper and let the cat get acquainted with the scent .
    One night I called Frank Peterson, the vice principal at the high school where I taught. His wife Janet had just had a baby. “Frank? Joshua Storey here. Fine, fine,” I said into the phone. “Yeah, I heard, that’s great. Susie’s eight months along herself. I know, they get that way –”
    â€œGet what way?” Susan snapped.
    â€œListen, we have this kitty over here, and I was wondering if we could borrow one of little Michael’s diapers, a soiled one, yeah, to show it … oh sure, we’d wash it before we brought it back,” I promised.
    Susan dog-eared her copy of Henry Kissinger’s American Foreign