Sometimes he thought of Carolyn.

When Blair would stand by the kitchen island and look up at him, coffee mug in hand, sometimes, he would flash on another face, another smile, standing there by the kitchen island.

Sometimes, when they sat side by side on the sofa, watching the Jags on TV, he'd reach out and finger the curls, and remember stroking straight, finer, but somehow more coarser hair.

Once in a while, buried deep inside Blair's body, immersed in his scent, gasps and moans caressing his ears in time to his thrusts -- the echo of another voice, crying in pleasure, would flitter through his mind; the feel of another body, softer, more slender, but less intensely textured, would ghost across his skin -- and he'd hold Blair tighter, and thrust deeper and harder.

The thought of life without Blair, of never having met him, or not having loved him and been loved by him, not having had this life together -- such thoughts were unsavory and distressing, best kept banished to the shadowy recesses of his mind. But sometimes he thought of Carolyn, and the possibilities that were, the dreams and hopes unfulfilled. And he looked at Blair, vibrant and cherished and present -- and marveled at all he had.