I love myself. “Oh!” I exclaim, caught off-guard by the thrill. “Now, the buttons.” I reach for the top one, immediately recognizing my error. One by one, I button Oma’s dress, my dress, pulling it up a little to reach the last two. Oh, the joy of catching that flutter of uncertainty and desire in him as I do so. Her chest is leaning against my back as she stretches to whisper “nothing is quite so exciting to a man as your confidence. Oma places her hand on my knee and gives it a little push so that my thighs are pressed closely together, my right over my left. I am her when she was me. I reach out with my left hand and gently touch his folded hands, a practiced gesture that elicits a reflexive, bold response as he opens his hand and his palm to clasp mine.
