"Pot exacted from him a languid thoroughness while making love. Every touch lost its path, outlived its life expectancy. She had licked under his arm, that cool trail he'd felt for days afterward, while washing dishes for his mother, dopey with the steam rising from the sink and the heat of the oven, or while lazing on the living-room carpet before Gilligan's Island and Get Smart with the slippery velvet of the golden retriever's ear in his fingers."
From Open, by Lisa Moore
Lisa Moore was nominated for last year's Giller Prize, for her beautiful collection of short stories. Amazon doesn't want to link to it on my sidebar, the jerks, so I'm putting it up here, front and (left of) centre.