Eventually — I don't know when, time has become unreliable — we separate. Barely. His hand in my hair. Mine on his chest. Forehead to forehead.
"We should get off the floor," I say.
"Probably."
"Your hip—"
"Is going to have opinions about this tomorrow."
"I'm going to help you."
"I—" He stops himself. I watch it happen — the wordcanforming on his lips and then dissolving, replaced by something that costs him more. "Okay."
I stand. I drag the crutches closer. I position one where he can reach it and plant my feet.
"Give me your hand."
He locks one hand on the edge of the cabinet. He gives me the other. I brace. He pushes.
It's the same twelve-step process I've watched for weeks — edge, plant, push — but this time both my hands are around his forearm. His hand locks around my wrist. I pull. He rises.
Halfway up, he stumbles. My hand goes to his waist to steady him. His hip is right there under my palm, and the contact is —
Different. Different from every other time I've touched him. No longer clinical, no longer careful. Just — contact. His body and mine, keeping each other upright.
He's standing. Close. My hand on his waist. One of his hands still on my arm, the other leaving the cabinet slowly. His face right there.
I lean forward. Press my mouth against his. Quick. Just once. His lips catch mine for half a second longer than I intended and the half-second is everything.
The kitchen is quiet. The garbage bag is still on the floor. The baseboard heater clicks — three, pause, two — and hums.
Outside, the light has gone blue. The street is doing its evening thing — headlights, the scrape of a snowplow somewhere on the next block, a door shutting in the building across the way.
Neither of us has moved. His forehead against mine. His hand on my arm. My hand on his waist.
The apartment is very quiet.
We stay.
15
THE NIGHT AFTER
I.
We're still standing in the kitchen.
That's the thing nobody tells you about kissing someone for the first time — you have to figure out what to do with the next thirty seconds, and the thirty after that, and neither of you has a script. Especially when one of you can't bend at the hip without a sound effect. His hands are on my arms. My hand is on his waist. The garbage bag is still on the floor. The baseboard heater clicks.
"So," he says.
"So."
"We should—"
"Yeah."
Neither of us moves.
