I say tomorrow.
She does not let go of my hand.
I do not let go of hers.
It is 11:14 p.m.
The coffee is gone.
I look at the photograph on the wall.
Three women in a Geneva kitchen. Caught laughing. One younger than the woman beside her by ten years. One older. Only one looks directly at the camera.
The woman in the middle is Eleni, Nadia’s aunt.
The woman on the right is Lucia, Nadia’s mother.
The woman on the left is the woman whose hand has been in mine for an hour.
I look at her.
She has tipped her head against my shoulder. Her eyes are closed. She is the next thing to asleep, which is the place a woman gets when she has not slept in thirty-six hours and has decided that the man whose shoulder she is on is the shoulder.
"Nadia."
"Yes."
"I love you."
She opens her eyes.
She looks at me.
Then she closes them again, puts her face against the side of my neck, and says it into my skin so I feel it before I hear it.
"I love you, Sean."
I tip my head against hers.
"Bed?"
"Yes."
I stand. I pull her up. She comes against me without resistance, and I pick her up, and she puts her arms around my neck, and I carry her through the loft to the bedroom because the loft is small enough to carry her through it.
I put her down on the bed.
She pulls me down with her.
This is the third time we have done this. The brick wall behind the bar. The kitchen island in West 12th.
This is the time the others were earning.
She is under me, and my mouth is on hers, and there is no architecture between us, and there is no phone going to ring, and there is no Glock on a counter, and there is no woman in a chair across the river, and there is no man on the FDR.
There is her.
There is me.
