The detail undid me.
Not my face.
Not the whole evening.
My hand.
Cut across the palm, wrapped badly in white gauze.
But it was me.
Inside the memory.
I held him tighter.
“You found another piece.”
“It isn’t small.”
“No.”
“It doesn’t feel small.”
“It isn’t.”
He lifted his head.
His cheeks were wet.
“I can’t see your face clearly.”
“That’s all right.”
“I know your voice.”
“That’s enough.”
“I know how I felt when you stayed.”
My thumb moved across his cheek.
“What did you feel?”
Noah looked at me with the old vulnerability and the new courage layered together.
“Safe enough to hope.”
I rested my forehead against his.
The kitchen timer beeped.
Neither of us moved.
After several seconds, Noah whispered, “Dinner.”
“Can wait.”
“It will burn.”
