I am distracted the minute she comes and sits on my lap, naturally leaning on my chest while I read from the book. She doesn’t smell of milk as she once did and she doesn’t smell of a woman she is yet to become. Somewhere between those incarnations of her being, she is this, a soft weight on my thigh and a load of easy trust on my breast. I read a few sentences before kissing her on her head. She looks up and smiles before dropping her eyes back to the book and holding it firm. We finish reading and then discuss something about her brother and then her best friend before we start pillow fighting. I bite her unshaped knee and she squeals. After a while we are tired and rests her head on my stomach while I stare at the ceiling. Will this, our relationship, influence the man she loves tomorrow? Though it is play for us, I believe each trusting and joyous relationship, every sample of what feels good in the innocent heart, every instance of dependability and faith raises a woman’s hopes of finding the same in that relationship she foolishly invests her all in. She will learn, I am sure, and when we meet next I cannot bite her knee and she will describe her friends as “cool”.