“It was.”
She waited.
My mother had always known when silence was doing more work than words.
“You sound tired,” she said.
“I’m fine.”
“I didn’t ask if you were fine.”
I pulled a corner from the sandwich.
“It’s just a long run.”
“How many more?”
“Eleven shows.”
“And then?”
“Three days off.”
“And then?”
“Rehearsals for the award show.”
“And then?”
“Europe.”
“And after Europe?”
I smiled faintly.
“Are you trying to prove a point?”
“I’m trying to find the part where you come home.”
“I was home last month.”
“For thirty-six hours. You slept through twelve of them and spent six talking to a camera crew in the kitchen.”
“They liked the kitchen.”
“I like you.”
The simplicity of it hit harder than it should have.
I looked out through the windows at Dallas glowing below me. Thousands of windows. Thousands of people behind them, brushing their teeth, arguing over television remotes, forgetting to move laundry into dryers.
Ordinary lives.
The kind people thought I had escaped.
“I like you too,” I said.
“You sure you’re all right?”
