We sit cuddled together in the last warmth of summer, dreaming of narwhals, as mermaids sing far out at sea.

The deer scent the wolves and stand silent and watchful. They turn and leap off like ballerinas, their plume-like tails raised in alarm.

I remember the strength of her body writhing inside the velvet. And, suddenly, the velvet was gone as though my greedy hands had worn it away and she stood flushed and trembling before me. I forgave every complaint I had leveled against God at the sight of her tremulous beauty—wisps of curls like trickles of burgundy trailing over breasts as plump and round as a pair of bandy hens fattened up for Sunday dinner. I could scarcely touch her. My fingertips traveled over her roundness. In rashness I gathered her to me, pressed against her ... lay her down. I was inside her before her back touched the sheets. Her sighs could give birth to new stars.

The love story for me was the nature of the love and not the age of the lovers.

For she had eyes and chose me.

This isn't your world. It's your parents. Your world is still out there, waiting to be discovered. Always remember that.