| What We're Made Of In the middle of the night, my husband rolls toward me. I am lying on my right side. He pats me on my left hip. "I made you," he says. "I assembled you from parts of my first eight wives." I can be strong. He knows I've heard him. I do not open my eyes. First thing next morning, I find him sitting busy with something at his computer. My coffee is waiting. I'm always the last to get up. "So who were they?" I ask. Then I bend down, kiss the back of his neck. "You know," I continue, "you can't keep me hanging, ignorant of my roots." He curls two fingers around the handle of his black-and-silver thermal cup, and like some alien invader carrying off a village maid, he swoops it up, swivels away from his desk. He raises the uprooted cup to his lips, indulges himself with a sip. I meet the glint in his eyes with mine. "Your nose," he begins. "Cleopatra." "You're ears," he sighs. "Ann Boleyn." He returns to his computer. It's obvious this game is over, but I've got to ask one more thing. "Have you achieved perfection?" "Yes," he says, double-clicking the mouse. "Yes," he says, "I have. |