From Aimee Bender's An Invisible Sign of My Own:
On Saturday, I spend the whole day cleaning the apartment. I make the kitchen floor so white it's a dentist's dream; I vacuum; I scrub the shower grout. I shine the kitchen faucet until I can see my eye on the nozzle. I fill the trash can with a bouquet of dirty paper towels from dusting. I throw out magazines. He shows up at eight...I get [him] a glass of water he hasn't asked for, and he stands up to take it and I know I have to make the first move so I do it fast--he's swirling the water, clear liquid inside hard glass, it reminds me of the hospital, and I step closer, halve the space, and I just spend some time with the inside of his elbows, the burn marks from the science class. He watches me closely. I don't kiss his mouth right away, I kiss instead his neck and the side of his cheek and the inside of his elbow.
PS: Aimee Bender has a new book out: The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake.