Carl wanted to pamper Joey, treat her like a delicate precious thing, but it wasn't in him. He grabbed her hips and groaned into her neck and fucked her, beat his love into her. He needed to touch her hard, hold her tight enough to almost break her, to be sure she was there.
She hung onto him just as tightly, leaving five small bruises on each of his shoulders. She lifted her hips up against him and bent in some sweet ecstacy of body that Carl could only reflect back into her. In those moments he thought maybe she loved him as much as he loved her.
He knew that wasn't always, couldn't be, because he'd seen her shoulders sag when she looked at a telephone, saw the hole where something nameless should be. Hope, perhaps. He wasn't the thing that would make her whole.
The day Promethea came, he finally understood. They all did.
And Joey - Sophie - she was glory.