Noah tasted it.
His expression brightened.
“Still good.”
We bought some.
By the time we reached the final aisle, his words had begun to slow.
“We should go,” I said.
“I want cheese.”
“We have cheese.”
“Not that cheese.”
He pointed to a wheel coated in herbs.
“You have never eaten it.”
“Then it can become a new memory.”
We bought the cheese.
In the parking lot, he struggled to lift his right foot onto the car step.
I moved beside him.
“I can do it.”
“I know.”
He tried again.
The angle put too much strain on his hip.
I put one hand beneath his elbow.
“I said I can.”
The sharpness in his voice turned two heads.
I released him immediately.
Noah gripped the doorframe.
On the third attempt, he managed the step and lowered himself into the seat, breathing hard.
I loaded the chair without speaking.
The drive home passed in silence.
Upstairs, I carried the bags into the kitchen.
Noah began unpacking.
Fatigue made his movements clumsy. He placed the spinach in a cabinet, stared at it, swore, and transferred it to the refrigerator.
