A “Becoming” excerpt in sequence: “Beyond Comprehension” 

Seagate, New York

The Sixth Day of Their Lives

December 23, 1955:

It didn’t work!

Nothing worked!

The clams and oysters did not help, not one bit, except for…

Not one, but two bowel movements.

But not even that…

Not even the wisdom of the ages coming from the wise and all knowledgeable sage of Surf Avenue with his free advice and all-encompassing shit panacea… No! Not even that worked.

“Damn!” Throughout his life Mitchell had very often thought of his penis as having a mind of its own, coming to attention at the most inopportune of times…

Now he had no doubt!

It didn’t matter!

No matter how ‘hot’ he was! No matter how passionate his mind told him he was before, during and right up to the time he became poised his penis, that self-serving, unloyal member would desert him.

No longer was there any spontaneity in their lovemaking… their ‘attempted’ lovemaking.

Mitchell no longer used a prophylactic but he did continue the use of Vaseline because now…

Marsha had ‘rightful’ apprehension regarding Mitchell’s ability to maintain an erection long enough for penetration and her mind—oh, yes, it did—dwelt on the same thing his mind dwelt on. And her desire became secondary and her lovemaking rote and her moisture—the loving moister needed for penile entry—dried up, and…

Marsha’s ‘completely’ understandable lack of passion only added to Mitchell’s trepidation and now it was not only impossible for him to maintain an erection, but each time they tried it became more difficult for him to achieve an erection, and…

Marsha became more aggravated and…

Mitchell became more exasperated and…

Each time they tried, he tried not to think about it. To think only of Marsha and that she was there for him! To enjoy Marsha and what she had to offer.

He tried! ‘Oh, God’ how he tried to concentrate on her beauty: on her so soft, so beautiful breasts; on the so sweet taste of her nipples; on the so smooth texture of her inner thighs; on her silky pubic hair and her willing, Oh, God! so willing vagina but…

Don’t think about it! I do not want to think about it!

So then he thought about ‘not’ thinking about it, and thinking of ‘not’ thinking about it didn’t help one bit.

**** 

On the sixth day of their lives, Mitchell took Marsha to see Manhattan.

Trying their best, each put forth a facade of enjoyment.

They went to the top of the Empire State Building.

They went into the crown of the Statue of Liberty.

The saw the play “Tea and Sympathy,” tickets courtesy of the U.S.O.

They had dinner at the Chinese restaurant he had told her about.

Getting lost in the pre-Christmas crowd on Fifth Avenue, they delayed going home for as long as possible, but…

Eventually they did go home where…

They went to bed with heightened apprehension, which added to the ever-mounting tension and…

“God-damn it! What in the hell’s wrong with me?”

...anger

“What’s ‘wrong’ with you, Mitchell? I’ll tell you what’s wrong with you! Your ‘mother’! That’s what’s wrong with you!”

“ ‘My mother’? Marsha, what in hell’s my mother got to do with this?”

“It’s that god-damned joke she just ‘had’ to tell!”

“Yeah, sure! ‘Everything’s’ my mother’s fault, huh?”

“Yeah, she just had to tell…” in a mimicking, mocking voice, “...the one about the guy who couldn’t keep it up on his wedding night! Remember? “

“Yeah, I remember! You ‘bitched’ about that before!”

“Yeah! Well I think it’s been on your mind, and that’s why you can’t…”

“You’re ‘full of shit’, Marsha! I haven’t thought about that at all! And so long as we’re talking about ‘my’ mother, I’ll tell you who’s fault I think this ‘really’ is! How’s about ‘you're’ mother?”

“Oh, ‘yes’! I ‘knew’ you were going to get around to that!”

“Yeah, I ‘am’! If she’d just minded her own god-damned business, we’d have done it when we first got married. When we damn-well should have! But ‘no’, she said, Don’t do it till ‘I’ say so! And of ‘course’ little Marsha always listens to her mommy!”

“Mitchell, ‘shut up’! Just ‘shut up’!”

“Yeah, Marsha, I’ll shut up, okay!”

In insurmountable anger—at Marsha, but mostly at himself—turning from her and moving to the far side of the bed, Mitchell stared into the darkness.

Turning in the opposite direction, moving as far to the other side of the bed as possible. Feeling lost. Feeling alone and oh, ‘so’ unhappy, Marsha cried.

Mitchell heard his wife crying, but too bound in anger and too involved in self-pity, he did not turn to her.

Seagate, New York

The Seventh Day of Their Lives

December 24, 1955: 10:14 AM

Marsha sat at the table in the kitchen writing letters to Rosalie and Shelly.

She wrote of the ‘apartment’ of ‘Seagate’ of ‘Coney Island’ and what she’d seen of New York City. However outside of saying, ‘He’s fine’, Marsha did not mention Mitchell nor, because at that time she could not think of even one of ‘the joys of married life’.

Between letters, putting the pen down, she looked at Mitchell because…

Since last night, Marsha had been thinking ‘very seriously’ of going back to Chicago because…

We’ve never even had sex! she thought, Well, not all the way. And further thought— as taking a ‘Kleenex’ from the box at her elbow and dabbing at the growing moisture in her eyes as— Stifling a sob, Marsha now thought… As had Mitchell, Maybe we can get it annulled.

Lying on the sofa facing the kitchen pretending to read a ‘Max Brand’ paper-back, but glancing at Marsha over the top of the book every few seconds, Mitchell urgently wanted to do ‘something’, to say ‘something’.

He well knew the problem was his, but no longer had ‘any’ idea what to do about it. He knew Marsha was unhappy but really didn’t know what to say. He wanted to apologize for what he’d said about Rhea, but felt he was right and could not bring himself to say the words.

They hadn’t spoken to each other— not one word— since last night and now the silence and depressive atmosphere was becoming too much.

“Marcie!” Standing suddenly. “let’s get the ‘hell’ out of here!”

Looking up. Her voice weary. “Where do you want to go, Mitchell?” She asked as though not caring where they would go or what they would do.

“We’ll take the ferry to Staten Island… ‘Come on’!” Going to the table, taking the pen from her hand and bodily pulling her to her feet. “You can’t go aboard, but I’ll show you ‘Halfmoon’ then maybe we’ll head back to Manhattan, grab a bite to eat and see if there’s another play we can catch or see a movie or something… ‘Come on’! How’s about it?”

Screwing the cap on the pen. “Okay.” Said halfheartedly. “If that’s what you want to do.”

Taking the pad of writing paper and the bottle of ink, Marsha put both into the top drawer of the dresser.

“Marcie, look, honey. I’m sorry for all this and as soon as I get aboard ship on Monday, I’ll make an urgent request to see a doctor and do ‘whatever’ I can to solve our… ‘my’ problem.”

“Okay, Mitchell. Whatever you want.”

Her unconcerned attitude made him angry, but he held it down.

****

Though he attempted to speak to her, Marsha was unresponsive and the car ride from Seagate to the ‘Staten Island Ferry Terminal’ was all but silent.

The frigid, darkly overcast day added to the depression.

Standing inside, behind a water-stained window, Mitchell pointed to Ellis Island then a few minutes later, the Statue of Liberty, that were both barely visible in the foggy distance.

As the ferry docked at Staten Island, going outside they climbed the staircase to the upper deck where Marsha was able to see the expanse of the huge complex.

Still thinking of the Coast Guard in terms of red-roofed lifeboat stations. Saying her first complete sentence since leaving the apartment, “I didn’t think it would be so gigantic.”

Pleased to hear her voice again. “Yeah, it is a pretty big place… There!” he said, putting an arm about her waist and pointing, “There she is!”

Looking at the forest of white smoke stacks. “Where?”

“Look, see that pier?” Pointing to the first pier past the ferry terminal. “Okay, we’re going to count piers. Stay with me now. ‘One’, ‘two’...” moving his pointing finger, “...’three’… You still with me?”

Not moving her eyes. “Yes.”

“Okay. Now the fourth pier… and ‘there’, on the next one, that’s her.”

“Oh…” That’s the ‘Halfmoon’, she thought, Mitchell’s ship.

Once again Marsha felt as though here, ‘now’, was a dream. Turning her head, looking at him to be sure she was really here… ‘Really’ here with Mitchell! And...

Marsha remembered that there was ‘no one’ whom she would rather be with and ‘no place’ she would rather be then ‘here’ with Mitchell and she snuggled closer, and…

He felt the shift in her position and the easing of her posture.

“Think I can go aboard and see it up close someday?”

This question, of course, totally canceling all thought of going to any home other than her home in Seagate, with her husband.

“Sure. They allow visitors on Sundays and some weekend when I have liberty I’ll take you aboard. Besides, I want to show you off to the guys.”

Smiling her first smile in almost fifteen hours. “You mean I might even get to see you in uniform one of these days?”

Her smile warming him. “Trust me, honey, you’re going to get sick of seeing me in that uniform! The blues are dry cleaned, but the whites and denims get washed, and ironed.”

“Something I didn’t tell you… I’m not so hot at ironing.”

“I figured, but you’ll learn. Or if you don’t, I’ll just keep on doing them myself.”

Put at ease, the light chatter bringing the husband and wife back to each other

“Marcie, I ‘hate’ it when you’re mad at me.” His eyes becoming moist, “I can’t imagine life without you now and I’m ‘so’ sorry that things…”

Placing a finger onto his lips, silencing him. “I know, Mitchie.” Always surprised by this visible show of emotion. “I’m sorry, too. Don’t worry...” she said sincerely, “... ‘whatever’ your problem is, we’ll work it out.”

Staying aboard, crossing back on the same ferry they then drove to Manhattan and bought each other a surprise Christmas gift at Macy’s.

They waited in line to see a matinee of the movie ‘Oklahoma’ at ‘Radio City Music Hall’.

They shared a pizza after the movie.

They got caught up in the Times Square, day-before-Christmas rush.

They went home.

11:32 PM:

Beyond Comprehension

Except for a thin sliver of light coming from beneath the door, the one-room home of Marsha and Mitchell Lipensky was in complete darkness.

In bed, ‘wanting’ to, but afraid of starting something that they were sure they would not be able to properly finish, each lay on either side of the mattress.

Although the distance that separated the husband and wife was less than a foot, each felt as though in a black void and miles apart.

“I’ve thought about it,” Mitchell said to the darkness. “God knows I think about it ‘all the time’, and...”

****

… Herein lies Mitchell Lipensky’s temporarily unsolvable problem: Mitchell Lipensky had always considered his penis as having a brain of it’s own that had so often throughout his young life overcome the thoughts — or ‘any’ thought — of his upper brain causing a penile expansion to announce itself by unexpectedly appearing at the most inopportune of time.

And, ‘yes’! Over-thinking these visually sensuously erotic times with his new wife is ‘exactly’ why his superior upper brain — with it’s preponderance of past sexual failures — is subconsciously overpowering the thoughts and physiological ‘reactions’ of his fictional lower brain…

****

“I’ve thought about it,” Mitchell said to the darkness. “God knows I think about it ‘all the time’ and maybe this is why...”

Interrupting him. “You ‘really’ think this wouldn’t be happening to us now if we did it then, in October?”

Silent a moment. “Marcie, I don’t want to argue with you again, so ‘please’ don’t get angry! But ‘yes’! Damn it, we shouldn’t have listened to them!” Turning onto his side, facing her. “When we were at your place, before your mother came out, I was there, baby! All I had to do was move a fraction of an inch and I’d have been inside…” Stopping, “...Marcie, ‘I’ would have been inside you.”

This stated as a simple statement. Yet, in absolute awe as though this were the most wondrous thing in the world and… In the mind of each, at that time, ‘truly’, it was.

“Maybe that’s part of my problem. Maybe I’ve built it up so much in my mind that somehow I’m afraid to do it because what if it’s not so great as I’ve always thought it would be. Damn! I don’t even know if that’s my problem. Maybe I’m just too tense.” Sighing, “I don’t know. I only know that I love you and that ‘none’ of this is because of you and I’m ‘so’ sorry that this is happening to you because of me.”

“I know you are.” Turning from her back to her side, putting her hand on his shoulder that was instantly covered with his. “And you’ve ‘got’ to know how much I love you, Mitchie.”

He moved the few inches to Marsha’s side of the bed.

In the dark room the wife’s and husband’s lips found each other’s…

Within moments — his penis poking through the fly of his pajamas — he ‘knew’! He just ‘knew’ that this time, ‘now’ it was going to work!

What could he do? He ‘couldn’t’ stop trying!

“Marcie,” a bit hesitant, “you want to try again?”

Hesitating also. “You think you can?”

“Jesus, Marcie! I ‘always’ think I can!”

Hoping she’d be able to work up a bit of enthusiasm. “Yes, baby, it’s okay. Let’s try again. But if it doesn’t work, let’s promise ‘not’ to get upset! Okay?”

“Yes...” Although he knew he would, “...of course.”

Marsha removed her pajamas.

Mitchell removed his pajamas.

She held him…

And as always the mere touch of Marsha’s hand sent a sensuous, erotic jolt through him, as…

Knowing that her lack of fluid... That her dryness... That the absence of ‘any’ sign of physical passion might also be affecting him. Not sure where this was going. Actually rather thinking that this, as their other attempts would be going no place, Marsha was far from enthralled and even were she able to fake enthusiasm, her body could not so there was none of the necessary secretion.

Kissing. Touching. Holding, Fondling.

Attempting to caress Marsha’s less-than-moist vagina. Aware that —if he lasted that long—they would need lubrication.

“Hold on, honey. I’ll be right back.”

Stay hard! Crossing the black room. Groping for the dresser, Oh, God, silently praying, please don’t let it get soft!

Opening the top drawer he reached inside and fumbling a moment, removed the small, round jar.

Unscrewing the cap, he left it on the dresser, as...

Holding the jar in his left hand, placing the index and forefingers of his right hand into the jar— Withdrawing his fingers Mitchell’s mind told him one thing, his fingers told him something else, as…

Taking one step towards Marsha and bed, as…

Rubbing the contents of the jar over his, thank you, God, still extended penis, as…

Just to be on the safe side, putting his two fingers back into the jar, re-anointing himself, as..

Memory flashing to this morning and Marsha putting her pen, pad of writing paper and the small round jar of ‘Carter’s Indelible Blue/Black Ink’ into the top drawer of the dresser, and…

Oh, boy.

The thought of this beyond instantaneous comprehension, as...

Stopping, standing dead still, as…

“ ‘Uh-oh’!”

Hearing, ‘Uh-oh’?

“ ‘Uh-oh’, what, Mitchie?”

His fingers and mind still in conflict.

“Marcie...” the tone of his voice strangely timid, “...today…”

“ ‘What’s the matter’?”

Oh, boy!

“Marsha, today, uh…” afraid to ask. “This morning, when you were writing, uh…?”

Becoming annoyed. “ ‘Yes’?”

Hoping, Oh, God! ‘Hoping. “The, uh, ink? You didn’t take the ink out, did you?”

Thinking a moment, “Yes, I filled my pen. Why?”

Uh-oh!

Afraid to ask. “Where’d you…” afraid to know, “...put the bottle?”

“Where it belongs, back in the top drawer. ‘Why’?”

Oh, boy!

The small, round bottle of Carter’s Indelible Blue/Black Ink normally kept in the rear of the drawer, the small, round bottle of Vaseline Petroleum Jelly normally kept in the front of the drawer.

“Where in the drawer?”

“Mitchell...” now truly annoyed, “...I ‘don’t’ remember! ‘Why’?”

Struggling to remain calm. “Marcie, honey...” he said in that strangely timid voice, “...turn the light on, please.”

“ ‘Turn the light on’?”

“Yes…”

Not sure if he’ll be able to stay calm much longer.

“…please.”

Having no idea why. “Okay.” Sitting up, reaching to her left she turned the knob on the lamp…

Marsha blinked her eyes as they became accustomed to the light.

Mitchell blinked his eyes as they became accustomed to the light then…

Daring to look…

“Oh—my—God!”

...he looked.

Marsha... “Oh-my-God!” ...looked, too.

Blinking her eyes a number of times as not ‘fully’ comprehending what she saw, while biting her lower lip to keep from laughing as,“Oh-my-God.” she repeated because…

The sight of this ‘truly’ beyond instantaneous comprehension.

“God...” looking upward, “...you ‘really’ did it this time!” Mitchell said. “Not even you can think of ‘anything’ worse than this!” Because…

This, ‘truly’ beyond ‘all’ comprehension…

Rooted where he stood.

“Why, me, God?” His eyes shifting downward. “ ‘Why me’?”

Looking at Marsha. “Ten minutes ago we were lying in bed wondering what was causing it… ‘Me’, not being able to keep a boner! All my ‘life’ I’ve had a boner! For ‘no’ reason I’d get a boner.”

Sounding as a person on the verge of hysteria.

“All my life, no matter what I was doing I’d get a boner! No matter who I was with, I’d get a boner! And I’ve ‘never’ been able to get laid! Oh, yes! I’ve thought about it, Marsha!”

Attempting to gain control. “I’ve sure thought about it and don’t ask me why, but now I know, for ‘sure’!” Looking skyward. “It’s God! God doesn’t want me to ‘ever’ get fucked! And will you look ?” He giggled, “Just look! How come ‘now’ it don’t go away?”

And…

Yes, ‘it’ is still there!

Oh, yeah!

And yes, ‘it’ is still standing at attention.

Oh, yeah…

In all of its indelible blue/black magnificence.

Unable to hold back any longer, Marsha began to laugh.

Giggling again. “I just can’t believe it.” Realizing the humor in this, the giggle turning to laughter. “I ‘can not’ believe it!”

“Mitch,” struggling to catch her breath. “You said you wanted… oh, God, ‘lead in your pencil’! How’s about, ‘oh, God’…” Tears running from her eyes, barely able to get the words out, grabbing the pillow from behind her back, “...ink in your…” almost choking on the words, “ink in your pen!” Marsha buried her face in the pillow.

Tears running from his eyes too. “Marcy. Baby, get me one of those large beach towels.”

Rushing into the bathroom, Marsha grabbed a rolled towel from inside the vanity.

“Here, honey, lift this foot...” slipping the edge of the towel beneath his right foot, “...now this one,” tapping his left ankle.

The towel unrolled from his feet back, slumping to the floor attempting to minimize the carpet damage, sitting with his legs spread and his knees cocked, Mitchell Lipensky’s lower abdomen, pubic area and penis were splotched with ink. Blue/black streamers of it ran down his thighs and calves, over his feet and between his toes. And if someone were to look, if someone were so inclined, they’d see a dappling of the stuff around the orifice of his rectum.

“Marcie...” scarcely able to get the words out, “...you ever hear of ‘blue balls’?”

Gasping, “Yeah, I’ve heard guys mention it. But, Mitchie...” breaking up again, “...I’d guess that that...” pointing in the direction of his wide-open, fully visible blue tinted crotch, “...ain’t ‘exactly’ what they were talking about.”

“No, Marcie, I ‘assure’ you, this ain’t what guys talk about when they talk about blue balls. What this is…” looking for a word, “…this is ‘fucking unbelievable’!”

Sitting on the carpet next to him— The two of them sitting naked on the floor laughed together… and the tension of the past four days evaporated.

“Mitchie,” she said when the laughter ebbed, “this couldn’t happen to anyone in the whole world but you, and that...” pointing to his now retracted penis, “...is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen!”

“Yeah, this even beats all those damned pennies.”

“Yeah, it does. And I thought nothing could ever beat that.”

“Think it’s time I try to get this damn ink off. I ‘sure’ hope a shower works. Marcie, get my slippers, will you so I don’t leave footprints.

****

Coming from the shower about twenty minutes later, with hard scrubbing about fifty percent of the ink had washed away leaving the splotched parts of Mitchell’s lower body cast in pale blue.

“Come on...” gesturing to a different towel laid onto the carpet..”… sit, and I’ll see if I can get more of it off.”

Still nude, going to the kitchen…

From his place on the floor watching the movement of Marsha’s long, slender legs small, hard buttocks. — even under these conditions— his little blue nub suddenly becoming a larger blue nub.

...Marsha took the dish-towel from the bar behind the cabinet. Soaking the towel and squeezing a goodly amount of liquid kitchen soap onto it then, taking a box of cotton balls from the bathroom cabinet.

Going back. Squatting cross-legged before her husband...

Even if he weren’t purposely looking — which he was — he couldn’t help but notice the fully open view of his wife’s body. Actually now seeing more of the female anatomy than he’d ever seen or even imagined. Even as Marsha, attempted to wipe the ink from his feet, from between his toes and legs. His lower brain now in full control, Mitchell, once again, achieved a full erection, as...

...Abandoning ‘all’ thoughts of modesty, privacy and a guys ‘private’ parts—whatever they may be — using dish-soap soaked cotton balls, Marsha Lipensky swiped, scrubbed and rubbed and dabbed into crevices and cracks neither knew existed and Marsha especially liked the reaction she received when, holding his penis by the glans, stretching it upward while genitally scrubbing the backside with a soap saturated cotton ball, as…

Watching his penis— seemingly pneumatically— erect and contract just feet from her face. Aware of a sudden, major flow of vaginal fluid thinking, Wonder if the ink’ll come off? Because If Marsha was not afraid of ink coming off within her vagina, she’d ‘gladly’ impale herself upon it.

That aside: Minutes earlier she had thought that sitting directly across from him with her legs crossed, it might be too embarrassing to have Mitchell look at her fully nude, fully open body. But, surprising herself— ‘always’ thrilled at the reaction she received whenever he viewed any part of her nude body— Marsha now discovered that she actually enjoyed having him look at her naked as she, most certainly, enjoyed looking at his nude body. Preferably minus blue/black ink.

Sitting completely nude with legs crossed while he, arms extended to the back, sitting with legs widely spread from side to side as she, ensconced as closely as humanly possible within the juncture of his thighs, dabbed at her husbands penis.

A ‘learning experience’!

Learning more about the exposed anatomy of female and male bodies now, then in the combined culmination of their forty years.

“Here...” handing him the soapy towel, “...you try getting it out of there.

Taking the towel and rubbing it fore and aft, through the fissure of his buttocks and coming away with nothing but a light-blue film on the cotton towel. “Think it’ll come off, ever?”

“Don’t know, Mitch. Good thing you’re not on duty tomorrow, huh?”

“Jesus, I don’t even want to think about what would happen if any of the guys in the shower saw me like this.”

Looking at the stains on the lavender carpet. “What’ll we do about the carpet?”

Thinking a moment, no doubt hearing it from the same source that she’d heard ‘pepper will keep a man from maintaining an erection’. “Milk!” she said. “I’ve heard someplace that milk will take stains out.”

Going to the refrigerator, Marsha returned with what was left of a one-quart container along with another towel.

Pouring some of the milk on one of the smaller stains, she scrubbed, and some—but not much—of the ink rubbed onto the towel.

“Not enough milk here, Mitchie. Why don’t you go next door and see if Lou and Grace can spare any.”

“Look at the time. Think we’d better wait until morning?”

“By then it’ll have set and we’ll ‘never’ get it out.”

Hesitantly. “Okay.”

Next door, the ‘Weiner’s’ had a one-bedroom apartment.

Ringing the bell...

...“Mitchell, what in the ‘hell’ do you want?” Angry at being woken, “You know it’s…” squinting at his watch, “after twelve!”

Standing in the hall wearing only his robe, “Yeah, Lou, I’m sorry to wake you.” Mitchell said, holding a glass pitcher forward. “But we need some milk.”

“ ‘Milk’? You woke us for milk?”

“Yeah. Believe me, Lou, I’m sorry, but we need it.”

“ ‘You need it’? At twelve-fifteen, the two of you ‘need’ milk?” Seeing that Mitchell was wearing a robe— assuming by his bare legs, with nothing beneath—strange Lou didn’t notice his blue/black splotched feet and toes.

knowing they’re newlyweds, smiling slyly, “You guys...” he asked, “...got some kind of a… you know, ‘trick’ you need milk for?”

Debating with himself whether or not to show him. “No, Lou. No trick we just need some milk.”

“Then what in the hell you need milk for?”

Oh, well. “This, Lou.” Opening the robe, “We had a, uh, little accident.”

Looking at him in disbelief, “How in the hell…?”

“Don’t keep the ink bottle next to your Vaseline.”

Marsha and Mitchell could hear Lou and Grace laughing through the wall for the next ten minutes.

****

The milk not working on the carpet, they decided it would be best to tell Mrs. Tennenbaum, and offer to pay for a new carpet.

“Mitchie...” yawning, “...It’s ‘really’ late and it’s been a real long day and I’m exhausted.”

“Go on to bed, honey.” Reaching under his scrotum, his hand coming out a bit of bubbly with dish soap. “I think I’ll try another shower.”

In bed, wearing only pajama tops, Marsha had tried waiting up for him.

In the shower he’d reasoned, It’s an understandable mistake… Yeah, ‘sure’! Like everyone goes around sticking their dicks in a bottle of ink!

By the time he’d finished the shower and came from the bathroom Marsha had fallen asleep.

Glad to see she was sleeping because —the laughter over— feeling more, ‘much’ more than just a ‘bit’ stupid...

Next “Becoming” excerpt in sequence: “Christmas: 1955”