The car ride home from Eleanor’s is quiet.
Not uncomfortable. Just full. The kind of silence that
has too much inside it to need words.
Adrian’s hand finds mine somewhere on the bridge and
stays there the rest of the way. Not performed. Not
scheduled. Just there, warm and certain, like it
belongs.
I don’t move it.
Neither does he.
When he walks me to my door we stand there a moment
longer than necessary, the way we always do now, and
he says goodnight in a voice that means considerably
more than that and I go inside and lean against the
closed door and think about sweetheart and nearly home
and the way he said both like they were things he’d
been carrying for a while.
I fall asleep still thinking about it.
-----
Wednesday is ordinary.
That’s the thing. It’s just a normal
