The guy was doing surprisingly well, which made me feel depressed.

Miles moaned and thrashed underneath wrist restraints; meanwhile Alaska flipped through channels and barked at the nurse for Oxycotin.

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Selfishly, I needed to know what my chances were at experiencing sexual pleasure with my husband.

I can’t bear to think I’m the only woman to ever be troubled over the possibility of a lifetime of platonic love.

I brought him cupcakes and watched football with him, while Miles moaned, thrashed and slept. Alaska had moved on, so for an hour we were roommate-free.

His swollen eyes were healing, and with the crack of light from their tiny slit opening, he’d peer sidelong around the room.

The way he cocked his head and let his chin guide his sight reminded me of a child playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey, peeking beneath a blindfold.

Alone at last, I closed the door and unhooked my bra.

But when he grinned goofily and said, “Do that again,” I was encouraged.

I breathed relief that my red-blooded American boy was still inside somewhere. We had enjoyed a stable routine of intimacy before the big leaf maple tree front-face crashed into his skull.

His voice was nasally because of the stints in his nose, and words emerged singular and deliberate.

His affect was as if he had taken a night’s worth of six-foot bong rips.

When it was clear he would live, he underwent surgery for his fractured skull, eye sockets and nose, after which he was weaned from a medical coma. It wasn’t until he was in rehabilitation that I allowed myself to think about how intimacy would work. Once, when his eyes were still glued shut and he had yet to speak, I slid into the hospital bed with him.