“Yes.”
“About what?”
“Work. Money once. My habit of keeping broken equipment because I might need parts.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“Thank you.”
“I meant your side.”
“I know.”
He looked toward the window, where rain made faint silver tracks in the glass.
“Were we happy?”
The question hurt more than the others.
“Yes.”
He swallowed.
“Very?”
“Yes.”
His fingers tightened around the paper wrapper.
“I don’t feel it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because making you feel guilty won’t bring anything back.”
His eye grew bright.
“I look at those pictures and it’s like someone else took my place.”
“No one took your place.”
“He got six years.”
I understood then.
He was grieving too.
Not our relationship in the way I was. He grieved the stolen self who had lived without leaving memories behind.
I moved my chair closer by a few inches.
Not close enough to touch.
“Those years belong to you, whether you can reach them or not.”
“They feel like yours.”
