I loved her best when she was sick, sometimes-- face white and wan and unguarded. Her unbrushed, unconditioned, unblowdried hair would form a shivering halo around a face completely void of artifice. She'd stumble about a bit with her shoulders caved in and her stomach drawn closed, and I'd grasp her arm and plant kisses on her soft, cold cheeks and bring her, weak, to bed. At those times she seemed so small and willing to be taken into some bigger being, just to sustain. I loved her best when she'd surrender, a listless joy relaxing her tired muscles, happy to be consumed. Fold her up into a shrimp embrace, and she'd cry out softly when I'd enter her. Bury my face in her mane of hair and bring her gently home.