He seemed almost sheepish about it, like he had chosen this for me and feared being judged for the sentiment. He planted himself on the far side of the bed, elbows on knees, sandwich in hand, and watched the screen with the intensity of someone trying to memorize a new language.
We ate in silence at first. The film’s sunlit landscapes and contrived dialogue filled the room with a kind of distant, harmless warmth. He seemed to settle into it, which was somehow the strangest thing.
I ended up eating more than I thought I would. Each bite made the edge in my chest dull a hair.
As the evening worn on, the movie’s ridiculousness loosened me. I started laughing at the wrong moments—a pratfall, an overly earnest line—and my chest unclenched a little more. He glanced at me when I laughed, eyes
