Wesley Keating. I was twenty-nine, taught middle school history in Columbus, Ohio, and had come into the supermarket with the modest intention of buying ingredients for chicken pasta. There had been no romantic purpose to the trip, no premonition, no reason to expect that Thursday would become anything I remembered.
Now a beautiful stranger was inspecting my hands.
“You’re shaking,” she said.
“So are you.”
She looked down, surprised.
We both laughed, but the sound was quieter now. The delayed understanding of what might have happened had begun to reach
