Kinky { Scenes From A Marriage }

We are eating big, dripping burritos filled with the meat of an animal and tangy tomatoes.  The baby is pointing her finger with one hand and raising flat, palm up with the other. We look to see where she is pointing, what she is asking. We speak her language. Her sister comes in and pulls the baby to the floor, giggling. Mr. Curry puts his hand on my waist, spreads his fingers, cigar like in their width, thickened by years of manual labor. A slender and vulnerable thread of desire runs the left side of my body. He puts his mouth close to my ear Let's go in the bedroom.  He leaves first, then I, and next door to our older daughter and baby we do the kinkiest things we've done in two years- two years long enough for me to get pregnant, have a baby and bring her to the end of her 10th month.  Later that week I arrive home and when I want to argue with him about some issue with the kids I suddenly remember us in the room and I no longer care about my argument, I only care about that intimacy. That closeness. That safety net underneath the entire rest of the fucked up world: mean old ladies in Starbucks, child molesters, crazy making co-workers, old family pain, new family pains, broken down cars, industrial parks at twilight, the eyes of teenage boys with broken spirits, the eyes of teenage girls with broken hearts, babies who cry and cry alone in the dark hours, friends who only kind of care, friends who care but only to a point, acquaintances who don't, old apartments with orange carpets soaked with tears. His body, face and gaze, the vulnerability of sex, the human creature, the time together we steal.