I have eaten my honeycomb with my honey; I have drunk my wine with my milk: eat, O friends; drink, yea, drink abundantly, O beloved . . . (Canticles v.i)

John Mitchell pulled his feet off the desk and extended his left hand to Cindi, who came into his study and sat on his lap.

“Are you sure you have to go to the baby shower tonight?”

“I’m sure,” she said.

“I hate it when you leave me.”

“You’re a dear . . . why do you always say that?”

John had been waiting for her to ask, and it had only taken three months. “It’s from an old blues song I heard on the radio.”

She snuggled down closer to him. He reached up and began to stroke her neck with his finger, the way she liked it. “You be careful,” she said.

“Why?” he said. He thought this was a reasonable question.

“I think Sandy might still be here. We have children.”

He grinned and breathed in her ear. “Do you know why we have children?”

She pushed against his chest, a little half-heartedly, and sat up. “Do you like my hair like this?”

“I love it when you wear it up like that,” he said earnestly. “Your barrettes are twin fawns grazing among the lilies.”

“You are in a state,” she said. “How does the rest of that blues song go?”

“It is similar to Adam’s sentiment in Paradise Lost—‘Her long, with ardent look, with eye pursued, delighted, but desiring more her stay’”

“Right. But what does the song say?”

“I hate it when you leave me, but I love to watch you go.”

Cindi jumped to her feet, but it was clear she had taken no offense. This was a dance they both knew the steps to. “You are absolutely impossible,” she said, and out the door of the study she went. But there was a little extra swing in it for him.

John sat quietly at his desk, fiddled around with his commentaries, and tried to think Second Corinthianish thoughts. It wasn’t working very well. All he could think about was the fact that Sandy wouldn’t be home for a couple more hours—Sandy had told him that herself. And Cindi would be out late at the stupid baby shower. This is was the chance of a lifetime. Or of the week, maybe.

With a sigh that fooled nobody, had anyone been there, John put his books down and headed off to the kitchen. It was time to lift Cindi’s ponytail up and nibble on the back of her neck. To make up for quoting that song.