He wanted her to say his name. He was crazy to hear it so he did everything he had learned and practiced—in all the long years and all the women and then she did. She said his name. She said it all night. She screamed it and moaned it and cried it and laughed it and at the end of the night, when she had nothing left inside of her—she still cooed, “Boris.” And Boris knew that every single women, every single moment with them had all been in preparation for this—they gave him the knowledge and skill to cause her to say his name in that rapturous, helpless coo.