There was no picture.
No date.
Only the certainty of turning toward him.
I wrote:
It means find me.
Beneath that:
I knew his hand at the back of my neck.
Then:
We kissed.
Reid, reading upside down, smiled.
“Do not add commentary.”
“I said nothing.”
“Your face did.”
I wrote another line.
He still kisses very well.
Reid laughed.
I liked the way the page made him happy.
“What do I call today?”
“Sunday.”
“You know that isn’t what I mean.”
He considered.
“The day you recognized the signal.”
“That sounds like a clinical note.”
“The day you kissed me.”
“I have kissed you before.”
“The day you kissed me after recognizing the signal.”
“Worse.”
Reid leaned back.
“What would you call it?”
I looked at the words.
