Sinclair, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Sing-keul-leeo: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Sing. Keul. Leeo. He was Sin, plain Sin, in the morning, standing five feet four in suspenders. He was Sinc in slacks. He was Clair at school. He was Emil on the dotted line. But in my arms he was always Sinclair.
