I'm not insane. This is very simple, very straightforward. Provided he doesn't kill me, its foolproof.

I thought of the words of the Renaissance philosopher Michel de Montaigne. "If you press me to say why I loved him, I can say no more than because he was he, and I was I.

Jake's mouth found mine, his lips molding hot and soft to my own. His tongue tentatively tested the seal of my lips; I parted them and he pushed inside. It was startlingly sweet and achingly familiar, like finding harbor.

I’m never wrong? Who besides Republican presidents and evil masterminds can say that with a straight face?

To find them all in one package...well, perhaps better not to dwell on his package in my fragile state.

Do you still do the clubs?” Jake shakes his head. “You do the clubs because you can’t find what you need at home. I’ve got everything I need. I’ve got the answer to needs I didn’t even know I had.

When you live with a potentially life-threatening condition you get used to the thought of dying. You accept it, you push on. The thing that scared me was the picture of dying slowly and painfully, the loss of independence and identity to illness.