It’s not even about sex. I don’t care about the sex. The forced thrusts, the musk of inert heavy male flesh; at some point it gets weary. What’s important is to wake up with someone. To spoon with that person. That’s what matters, the spoon. You wake up not with the cold draft of the deadly early morning air but the steaming twitch of drying cold. A warm belly, the one who loves you breathing against your shoulder, perversely and obstinately endearing.That’s it, the spoon.