He asked, “What’s the problem, Isa?” And tired of being coy all the time, I wanted to say, “I like when you are tender with me. I wish you were tender all the time.” It was the feeling that his tenderness was selective, and I wanted to be the object of all of it. I fiddled with my straw. The pulp of the lime trembled in the glass. I said, “You know,” and he said, “No, I don’t.” I have tried to stitch together tenderness from each person. Wring them of it. I want all the tenderness in the world. It’s a natural urge to want to be important in someone’s life. The soft underbelly of a coarse man. A preview is never enough because I am insatiable.