In our bedroom there's a wardrobe with a mirror running the full length of the wall. For years I just never looked into it.

I'd never once looked at myself during sex. I thought there'd be someone clumsy in there, with a soft stomach and flushed shoulders. Someone you couldn't want.

That evening he led me to the wardrobe, stood behind me and put his hands on my shoulders. "Look," he said. I lowered my eyes. He tipped my chin up with one finger. "At yourself. Not at me."

He undressed me slowly. My shoulders appeared in the mirror, my collarbones, my breasts. I looked at the woman in the mirror and didn't recognize her. She was wanted. So much that the man behind her had a tremor in his voice.

Every time I looked away, he'd stop. And wait until I came back.

He entered me standing up, right there, in front of the mirror, holding my hips, and I braced my palms against the cold glass, and the glass fogged up from my breath. I watched. I saw my back arch, my hair spill loose, my lips part. I saw his face over my shoulder — focused, almost stern. I saw everything, and for the first time I didn't want to hide. I wanted that woman in the mirror to never disappear.