In the dark, I wanted to kiss his wrist where his pulse was moving under my fingers. I did not. I wanted to ask if he understood what it meant to be trusted by him even briefly. I did not. I wanted to say I love you with the reckless certainty of someone who has confused conclusion with timing.
I did not.
This is either restraint or cowardice.
Possibly both. Most meaningful behavior seems to have mixed authorship.
At 11:06, I open the laptop.
Not the work laptop. Personal. This distinction makes me feel virtuous for approximately two seconds.
I search apartments with better kitchens.
This is not because of Nolan. This is because my lease is up in February and my mother is correct about dogless buildings and possibility. It is also because, for the first time since Nashville, I can imagine wanting a room to be better because someone else might stand in it.
I save three listings.
One has a kitchen island wide enough for two people to eat at without balancing plates on paperwork. One has parking included. One allows dogs, which is irrelevant and therefore obviously the one my mother would choose.
At 11:18, I close the laptop.
The phone is still faceup.
No message.
I pick it up, open Nolan's contact, and type:
Are you okay?
No.
I delete it.
That question is care when he offers me a door. It is pressure when I use it to knock on one he has not opened.
I type:
Thinking of you.
No.
Too much tonight. Maybe not too much forever. Tonight, too much.
I delete that too.
I set the phone down.
Participation, apparently, can look like doing nothing and meaning it.
At 11:52, the phone lights up.
Nolan:
Told Dana.
For one second, I do not move.
Then I sit down hard on the couch.
