I like the time between eight and ten. Bellies full, but not too full. Showered, pajamaed, content. We kiss and you taste sweet, but not too sweet. I moan into your open mouth and the thoughts of fighting are gone. If we could take the time between eight and ten and link the years into infinity, discarding the time between ten and eight, we would be happy. Always. (Barring sickness and a death in the family and too-long telephone calls and mandatory overtime and holidays.)