My thumb stopped worrying the callus. Rose put on her glasses and opened the door. The conversation was over. I remained in the chair.
“Tell me what to do, then.”
She looked back. I sounded more vulnerable than I intended. Rose’s clinical reserve eased.
“Stop deciding for her,” she said. “Give her accurate information. Respect the boundaries she sets. Stay inside the role you actually have. And when you’re afraid, don’t turn it into a joke she has to interpret.”
I absorbed that. The joke arrived anyway. I kept it behind my teeth.
Rose held the door open. I left.
Amy sent the amendment Sunday night at 8:03. It arrived as a PDF. Four pages. I opened it on my phone while eating cereal over the sink. The title read:
AMENDMENT
ONE:
PHYSICAL
AFFECTION
AND
PUBLIC-PERFORMANCE BOUNDARIES
I laughed so hard I inhaled cereal. The amendment reduced physical affection to three levels: routine contact, context-dependent contact, and restricted contact. Hand-holding and ordinary posed contact were routine. Cheek kisses and extended embraces required confirmation when practical. Mouth kissing and anything likely to create real romantic or sexual ambiguity required an immediate threat to the deception, mutual agreement, and a post-event review.
The launch kiss appeared as:
An unplanned restricted-contact event sustained beyond the minimum duration reasonably required to preserve the competition premise.
She had writtensustainedbeyondtheminimumduration. At the bottom, Amy added:
The parties acknowledge that the launch-event kiss did not indicate a change in relationship status.
My appetite disappeared. I called it relief. My phone buzzed.
Amy: Please review before tomorrow.
I typed:
Dani: Do I submit feedback through legal counsel?
Three dots.
Amy: You do not have legal counsel.
Dani: Rose is emotionally licensed.
Amy: She is not an attorney.
Dani: She objects professionally.
Amy: Review the document.
I returned to the first page and read the sentence again. Clear boundary. Exactly what we needed. I typed:
Dani: Reviewed.
