When there is no more violence, my daughter's boyfriend won't need to hold her like mine holds me.

       He holds me when we're sitting on the couch, glued to the TV. Search and rescue teams comb the countryside for a friend of a friend, taken from a parking lot after her shift, people all around, five in the afternoon.  A convicted rapist is in custody.  Her mother is crying on CNN. He begs me to be careful, to call him when I leave work. He pulls me closer, offers to buy me Mace.

       He holds me on the front lawn after my agent touches my ass and makes snide comments about me in a thong. He pulls me closer- and helps me burn my portfolio.

       He holds me in the cold parking lot outside the club, both of us screaming with rage. He normally walks with me-my best friend did instead. He punishes himself for that one last beer. I parked 15 feet from the door. A lot can happen in 15 feet grabbing, groping, kissing, screaming. He pulls me closer and helps me file the report.

      He holds me in when we're lying in his bed and I tell him I was raped. He pulls me closer and when I cry, he cries.

       I don't have a daughter yet, but I think about her with the same shadowy hope I have for a violence-free age. When there is no more violence, my daughter's boyfriend won't need to hold her like mine holds me.