“who loves you?”
it’s a rhetorical question, sounding like baby talk no matter how flat and even a voice it was spoken in. they went through this routine with the timing and practiced nuance of an abbot and costello.

“my mom.” he answers.
“no not your mom.”
“but my mom does to love me.”
as repetitive as this dialogue had become after 10 years, hearing the words “does to” spoken by a man of 40 still seemed to amuse them both. it was warm and uncomplicated. qualities the outside world could be very stingy with.
“but who else loves you?” she asks in a sing song.
why she always initiated this exchange after she had removed her bra but before her panties he never knew. maybe to distract him with those perfect brown nipples? maybe to simply put a carrot at the end of the stick.
“god”
“yes god loves you, but that’s not who i’m thinking of. who else?”
it was at this point that he would inject a variable, a constantly changing response to keep the mating ritual fresh. he imagined the quality of his answer would influence the quality of the lovemaking to come. a particularly clever reply might result in something special, something out of the ordinary.
“um”
once he’d answered “my mother-in-law” and gotten a decidedly disinterested hand-job as reward, so now he thinks it over striking upon an answer that surprises even him for it’s simplicity. “why has it taken ten years for this answer?” he thinks to himself. she peels his socks off and holds them aloft by two fingers like a dirty pamper. she is beautiful, his wife of 7 years. she pokes at his thigh.
“c’mon, who loves you?”
he waits; watches her thin hands as they unclasp his belt buckle. he grins and she knows he has a good one, she knows tonight’s is a command performance. she’s laughing almost before he answers.
“telly savallas.”