That's the crux of the situation, isn't it? She swallows, then reaches to brush her fingertips across his cheek. No more memories of what he did before, of how he looked before. No comparing his behavior then to his behavior now. This is some kind of fresh start. And she needs to accept it for what it is, in the here and now.

It's belated, but she nods. "Yes. You're you," she says. She leans in and kisses him, keeping her eyes open. It's a slow kiss, a contemplative one. She does want to connect with him physically, but it's not just about the physical aspect of the act this time. That's what makes the difference. It's intent.

She begins again, the same way as before, with a roll of her hips. But this time instead of being cocky about it she's slow and affectionate, gliding her hands down his arms to cover his hands. She rolls against him, and kisses him, and kneads lightly with her fingers.

Who can say what love is? Is this love, trying to drink in the sensations of touching him with her whole body, moving gently together as if to an unheard rhythm, preparing to join as one? Is it love, waiting for a man who had no guarantee of returning to her, and accepting the fact that when he did return he didn't even realize he'd been gone from her? Is it love, realizing the lust she has in her body toward his body isn't the same as the desire she has to make this work, to keep a hold of whatever this thing is?

She doesn't know, but it seems like it. Maybe it's better than what she had thought was love before he came back, not remembering the time before. Maybe it's better this way.