“I dislike when you make sense.”
“I know.”
Noah removed his hand.
I rolled onto my back and let space return between us.
He watched my breathing settle.
“Did I disappoint you?”
“No.”
“I stopped.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re fine.”
“I am uncomfortable. That is not the same as being harmed.”
A quiet laugh escaped him.
The awkwardness eased.
“I need coffee.”
“I need a shower.”
“Cold?”
“Extremely.”
His smile followed me into the bathroom.
When I came into the kitchen twenty minutes later, Noah had made coffee and toast.
He avoided my eyes while pouring cream into my mug.
I accepted it.
“Thank you.”
“I thought we were going to the market.”
“We can stay home.”
“No. I want to go.”
The Sunday market occupied two covered sheds beside the old railway pier. Vendors sold produce, bread, flowers, soap, smoked fish, and expensive pieces of driftwood to tourists who believed anything became art if displayed on linen.
Noah had not been there since the accident.
We brought the powered chair because the outing required more walking than he could manage.
The market was louder than I remembered.
Children ran between stalls. Vendors called across the aisles. A violinist played beside the entrance. Coffee, wet wool, grilled sausage, onions, soap, and sea air gathered beneath the roof.
