I'm forty-two, my husband and I have been married sixteen years, and I always thought I knew everything about him. Turns out I didn't, and that might be the best thing that's happened to our marriage.

An ordinary evening. He was reading in his armchair, I came over, sat on the armrest and kissed his neck. He didn't look up from the page and said: "Let me finish the chapter." Calm, not a trace of a smile. Then he pointed a finger at the rug by his feet.

I laughed. He didn't laugh. He turned the page.

I sat. Offended at first, like, what is this performance. Then curious. Then with something I hadn't felt, I think, since I was young. He kept reading. Sometimes, without looking, he'd drop a hand and stroke my hair like a cat, then turn the page again. I sat there listening to him turn the pages.

The chapter was thirty-two pages long. I checked afterward. By page twenty I was holding onto his knee with both hands.

He read to the last line. Closed the book, set it on the side table, took off his glasses. And said: "Alright. Come here."

He sat me on top of him right there in the armchair, in my robe, which I hadn't even managed to untie. He kissed me slowly, the same way he'd been reading. The old chair creaked under us. I held onto his shoulders, and he looked me in the eyes the whole time, never looking away, and it was more intimate than anything we'd done in sixteen years.

The next evening I took a book off the shelf myself, sat in the chair and started reading. He sat on the rug by my feet and waited. Only I didn't have any plan at all.