His eyes are closed and he sits cross-legged on his meditation dais, his lit firepot sputtering. I know he senses my presence. I wait for him to surface.

When his eyes finally open I cross my arms. "You were jealous."

I'm not surprised when he flicks one eyebrow in acknowledgment. "I will never make you laugh in Swahili like M'Benga."

No. I can't imagine it. "Baby…"

"There are too many variables for me to analyze the significance of this, if it negatively impacts the viability—"

I cut him off by kissing him. He reponds in kind. Analyze that.