The final bit. Elsie's thoughts.

Making love. Elsie thought that was the perfect way to refer to what they'd just enjoyed, as she lay with her head pillowed on her husband's chest, listening to him hum. She'd thought it odd at first that he hummed after, until she realized that he only hummed when he was filled with joy. And wasn't that what love should be about? Filling each other with joy.

It was true that love was made. When she was a girl, she only really knew of love from books. She thought it was something one could just fall into, like one might fall in a puddle of water. It wasn't until Charles, her Charlie, that she realized love was made, like drawing a picture, line by line.

They'd begun making love ages ago, long before either of them would have thought of joining in this way (although she wouldn't answer for her dreams). The first lines had been drawn the first time he'd offered to share the last bit of wine with her at the end of a day. More lines had been added the first time she noticed him rubbing his temples at dinner and left a Beecham's powder on his desk.

The first hints of color had been added when she dared to ask him if he'd ever wished for another life, and he'd returned the question to her. The colors became deeper and richer with the shadows of his possibly leaving for Haxby and then the relief when he stayed. The deepest shadows were added when she feared she might leave him in an entirely different way, but a new brilliance came when she heard him sing in joyful relief at knowing she would remain.

She'd truly seen the truth of what could come when they began searching for a house together, not quite letting herself wish that it could be their home. Still, she could see what the final product could be, and it could be glorious. It could be filled with adoring glances from him and gentle smiles from her. It could be filled with each of them caring for each other, loving each other.

All those 'could be's' became 'would be's' when he asked her to be stuck with him, to be his wife, and not just his companion, but his wife in every way. To live as closely with him as it was possible for two people to live. She had thought then that just meant what they'd just done, but now she realized that making love was so much more.

She made love to him when she lathered his face and carefully shaved him, not willing to risk losing his nose to a few tremors. He made love to her by making her toast, grumbling all the while that the way she liked it lightly toasted was merely warm bread. She made love to him when she cut his slice of apple tart just a little larger than he should really have. He made love to her when he covered her cold feet with a rug and added another lump of coal to the fire, even though she knew he was already too warm.

And finally, they made love in this bed. Their hands brushed over each other, adding brushstrokes. Their lips met and explored, adding nuances of shading and light. And finally, finally, when he pushed into her depths, it wasn't the beginning of making love, but the culmination of a masterpiece.

The end of the beginning.