You sleep on, quietly. A half smile on your face, your eye-lids fluttering to some half remembered, half forgotten dream of rapture long ago. Or maybe...you remember our passion of last night. The frenzy of our love-making, inspired by the prolonged sensuous build-up of our drawn out, saucy and risqué letters over the time we thought we would never get together. Our passion and the intensity of it had finally worn us out in the wee small hours. I distantly remember the feeling of loss as my spent. Father had never been one to sink into a rage, no matter theprovocation, and Tamara had pushed his buttons many times, once almostcatastrophically. All she had ever received was his signature Arctic-calm condemnation and disappointment. In my turn I'd felt it too, thoughI'd never pushed the boundaries so energetically as Tamara. My earlyexperiences of Father's withering frosts, as we came to call them, leftme so mentally bruised I became careful to avoid them; subsequently Ihad striven towards. More

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