His right hand moved across the cushion.
I turned my palm upward.
He placed his hand in mine.
The documentary continued at low volume. An elderly boatbuilder explained the process of steaming oak ribs while Noah’s breathing deepened against me.
We had sat this way hundreds of times before the accident.
On rainy evenings. Sunday afternoons. After difficult days in the yard. Noah’s head on my shoulder, his hand in mine, Marlowe stretched across our feet.
But this was not a reenactment.
He had chosen my shoulder today.
He had found my open hand and trusted it.
The difference hurt.
It also felt like a gift I had no right to diminish by comparing it to what came before.
When Noah woke, he stayed where he was.
His thumb brushed once across my knuckle.
“What time is it?”
“Nearly noon.”
“I fell asleep again.”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I was watching the film.”
“Liar.”
I smiled.
His head remained against me.
“I dreamed about the green lamp.”
“What happened?”
“You were there.”
My heart kicked hard.
“Could you see me?”
“No. I only knew.”
