“I let my head slide down the front of his shoulder. There's still meat on it, but I can feel the bone too, against my cheek. I put my nose in his armpit and smell him. It's the same as he's always smelled--all his toil, his departures, his violence, his shame at failing with his talents to convince Michael to stay, his sorrow over Sybil and whatever else, and all the anger he hates to have, the things he wants to change, things he's never told me and doesn't need to, but could and I'd love him anyway, everything exhaled by him and inhaled by me through his sour scent.”