But love is a rusting machine you call to have serviced over and over again, hoping the pieces won’t have to be replaced. Again and again you apply the grease until the engine inches forward. Between lifetimes you say words to your wife unrelated to phone calls from the kids’ school or the leak dripping into the attic. In the middle of grading a terrible essay you remember how much you admire her, and you send her an e-mail from the living room. And if neither of you has fallen asleep, you lock the bedroom door. And in the middle, one of your children knocks from the other side of the universe.