“The nap?”
“Today.”
Reid smiled.
“Yes.”
“I want to see them again.”
“We will.”
“Not because of the accident.”
“No.”
“Because I like them.”
“I know.”
Upstairs, I went directly to the bathroom, then found Reid in the kitchen unpacking food.
The pear cake sat beneath a cloth.
Three jars occupied the counter.
“You brought half their pantry.”
“I tried to refuse.”
“Miriam is stronger than you.”
“Terrifying woman.”
I stood behind him.
For a moment, I simply watched.
Reid put bread away.
Checked the refrigerator.
Moved the blackberry jam from the counter to the pantry.
He was tired.
I saw it now.
Not dramatic exhaustion.
The small heaviness around his eyes. The way he rolled one shoulder after lifting the basket. The pause before deciding where something belonged.
I had spent weeks treating him as a permanent structure in my life.
A wall did not get tired.
A wall did not need reassurance.
A wall did not wake from dreams of losing someone.
