Yahweh exhales slowly, glad to be back in Gwendolyn’s arms once again. But it would be nice, he muses, if she held him tighter.
As if on cue, Gwendolyn squeezes him hard. This always happens. It’s as though she can read his mind. What a wonderful feeling it is that she can reach down inside him and comfort the perpetual little kid—absentminded, isolated, scared, and flustered—then nudge him back to a peaceful reality.
