“You took six supported steps during physical therapy.”
“I survived.”
“You also cried enough to worsen your headache.”
He touched his temple.
“That part may be true.”
I brought him water.
He drank, then leaned into the cushions.
“What does this mean?”
His voice had quieted.
“What do you want it to mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then it means we kissed.”
“That’s all?”
“For now.”
He looked dissatisfied.
“You aren’t going to say we’re together again.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you kissed me once.”
“Twice.”
“Still inadequate evidence.”
His eye narrowed.
“You’re aggravating.”
“You remembered that.”
A smile escaped him.
Then it faded.
“I meant what I said yesterday.”
“About what?”
“Wanting to meet you.”
“I know.”
