was quiet for a moment.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I like that this is the conversation.”
I understood.
No retreat into birthday excitement. No careful announcement that we should think about what had happened. We were discussing the practical shape of a Sunday because neither of us needed the ordinary day to disprove the extraordinary one.
“I’m still choosing it,” I said.
“I know.” Her voice softened. “Me too.”
I arrived with coffee half an hour later. She opened the door in an old sweatshirt, took one cup, and kissed
