tired of pretending I don’t know what I’m waiting for.”
PART 2 — Eight Years of the Wrong Answer
I wanted to ask what she meant. I also wanted, with an intensity I found embarrassing, to preserve the few seconds before I had to hear her answer. In those seconds, the kitchen remained familiar: her hip against my counter, my coffee finishing behind us, a cake we were eating too early. Whatever she said next could make all of it impossible to return to.
So I reached for the plate.
“Those
