We hadn’t had sex in months. Instead, we’d spoon. I was always the little spoon even though I was a bigger of the two. He’d form himself to my back pressed into me like another skin and I could feel his breath on me – irritating, rhythmic exhalations – until I couldn’t stand it any longer and I’d curl up into a tighter ball, pushing him away with my hip. He’d make a tentative play for something more, a light caress up the side of my arm, a hand inching around my waist. My body would will him away, stiffening against his stiffness until he’d get the idea and turn back, forming his own ball, our bums touching.