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He almost laughs. Almost. “And you don’t peel.”

“Okay.”

“And...” He stops.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No. What?”

His voice lowers. “We don’t become what we were.”

I swallow. “Lovers.”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

“Okay.” The word tastes wrong. I don’t know why.

I’ve known this man for less than an hour.

Apparently I’ve known him for more than a century. Both things feel true. Both feel impossible. “Okay,” I repeat.

August stands again.

This time I let him.

His footsteps move away. One. Two. Three.

Stop.

“Lenora?”

“Yeah?”

“Throw away the tooth.”

I look toward the bathroom. “Why?”

“Because keeping pieces makes it harder.”

“For who?”

A pause.

“Both of us.”

Then he’s gone.

I sit against the door long after the hallway falls silent. Eventually, I get up, check the deadbolt and the chain then go into the bathroom.

The tooth waits inside the medicine cabinet.

I take it out, wrap it in tissue and drop it into the trash.

Done. Easy.

I wash my face. Brush my teeth carefully around the new molar. Change clothes. Turn off the lights then get into bed.