“You’ve lost your mind,” she says.
“I’ve been in Stockholm for eighteen months,” I say. “The Swedes are very stylish. It’s affected me.”
“Your Swedish is still terrible.”
“My Swedish is functional.”
“Last week you told Anders you needed akyssa.”
“One vowel.”
“Mateo,kissameans pee.Kyssameans kiss.”
“He understood from context.”
“He was confused. And then handed you mints!”
“Which was actually very supportive of him.”
She laughs and leans her head against my shoulder.
“We’d need a couple name,” she says, into my shoulder.
“We would,” I agree.
“In Swedish.”
“Yes, of course. It would have to be incomprehensible to everyone outside this country.”
We sit like that for a moment.
“You okay?” I ask. “Tonight. With him being there.”
She thinks about it honestly before answering. That’s an Elida-thing. I love it about her.
“Yes. He was just there. In the room. But he doesn’t have the space he used to have. In my head. I don’t know when that happened. Or how.”
“Brita,” I suggest.
“Brita,” she agrees. “And you. Maybe a little.”
“Only a little.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late. It’s already lodged in there.”
She smiles.
The taxi pulls up outside her building. We get out and she puts her shoes back on on the pavement, one hand on my arm for balance, the award tucked under her other arm.
I love her apartment. I feel almost at home here as I do in my own place. I love the way her apartment and my apartment have started to bleed into each other in small domestic ways that neither of us has mentioned directly.
Her favorite coffee in my cupboard. My jackets by her door.
Even the book I left on her bedside table a few weeks ago that I keep meaning to take back but haven’t.
She sets the award on the kitchen counter and looks at it for a moment.
