“I am eating.”
She cut the green bean into smaller and smaller pieces without eating any of them.
“You need carbs.”
“You are not my formal coach.”
“I am the woman sharing your bed.”
Her fork stopped. I had meant it as a joke. The joke sounded intimate. A camera passed our table. Amy put a hand on my knee beneath the table. Public maintenance. The camera moved on. Her hand remained for two seconds too long. Then she removed it. I ate bread to avoid speaking. Blake announced an early bedtime recommendation. The ballroom emptied by eight. Backin the room, additional bedding waited on the bed. One thin blanket. Two pillows.
“Excellent,” Amy said. “A structural barrier.”
I picked up a pillow.
“This is decorative.”
“It has mass.”
“Barely.”
“We can use luggage.”
“In the bed?”
Amy looked from the suitcase to the narrow mattress, recalculating both.
“It would create a clear division.”
“I am not sleeping beside your suitcase.”
“You were willing to sleep on a floor.”
“The suitcase has wheels.”
We compromised. Four pillows—including the two already on the bed—formed a line down the center. The spare blanket went to me. Amy used the duvet. We changed in the bathroom separately. When I emerged, Amy stood beside the window in navy pajamas with tiny white dots. She looked softer than usual. No watch. No structured clothes. Hair in a loose braid. I stopped.
“What?” she asked.
“Your pajamas have dots.”
“Observant.”
“Cute.”
“Restricted adjective.”
“Private context.”
“More restricted.”
I held up my hands. She went to brush her teeth. I changed into shorts and an old race shirt. The shirt had no race name. I had cut it away years ago. When Amy returned, her gaze moved to it. She did not ask. Another act of restraint. We prepared the race equipment together. Bib pinned. Shoes placed beside thebed. Breakfast set out. Gels arranged. Amy checked the alarm three times.
“Four forty-five,” I said.
“The shuttle leaves at five thirty.”
“I set two alarms.”
