I think about where I would go.
The list of places I would go is very short. It has my father on it, and the friend in London, and a name I cannot bring myself to write down in my own head.
"I don't want to leave tonight," I say.
"All right."
"I might want to leave tomorrow."
"Then I'll drive you tomorrow."
"Or the day after?”
"Or the day after."
"I don't have to decide right now."
"You don't have to decide."
"But I want the truck keys in the drawer."
She looks at me. She does not look away.
"Tomorrow morning," she says, "the keys to the old truck will be in the drawer. Before I leave."
"Okay."
"Tonight," she says, "the keys stay in my pocket. Because tonight I don't want you to drive down a county road in the dark in a truck you've never driven in weather you aren't dressed for after a day of thinking by yourself."
"That's fair."
"Okay."
"Okay."
She finishes the chicken. She takes the plate to the sink and washes it. I watch her wash it. Her back is to me. Her shoulders have come down further. She rinses the plate. She sets it in the drainboard next to my mug.
She turns and leans on the counter.
"I have the sofa," she says. "Same as last night. You have the bed."
"The sofa is too short for you."
Part of me wants her, suddenly. The thought shocks me. Part of her wants her strong arms around me in bed at night.
"It's been short for nine years."
"Max."
She looks at me.
It is the first time I have said her name to her. I hadn't said it yet. I had not even said it in my own head today, because in my head she has beenherandthe womanandshe. Tonight I say itacross a kitchen, and the word does something small and clean in my chest.
"Yes."
She looks at me a beat longer. There is hunger in her eyes layered with complexity. Then she looks away.
"Go to bed," she says. "Read. Sleep. I'll be on the sofa. Door's open if you need something. I don't sleep deep."
