“Everything old matters to you?”
“Things people keep matter.”
I heard the truth only after I said it. We looked around the apartment. Lola’s drawings. Old shoes. Unopened letters. Race medals. The photograph of me asleep against her shoulder, printed now and tucked beside the refrigerator. Dani kept things. Not neatly. Not visibly. But she kept them.
“What are you asking?” she said.
“I want to know whether you are building toward the marathon while telling yourself you are only running.”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want help deciding?”
Our relationship rule: ask whether the person wants a plan. Dani’s shoulders lowered slightly.
“Yes.”
“Then we schedule a decision after the four-week reassessment.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“Simple is not easy.”
She smiled faintly.
“Date?”
“Four weeks from yesterday.”
I entered it into my phone. Dani watched.
“This is romantic in a deeply damaged way.”
“It is clear.”
“That is your romance.”
I put down the phone.
“What do you keep the bib for?”
Her gaze returned to the drawer.
“Punishment, sometimes.”
The honesty hurt.
“And sometimes?”
“To remember I started.”
I moved closer.
“Which one tonight?”
“Punishment.”
I held out my hand.
