Annie said my name against my skin, without turning it into a performance or a vow, and I pulled her closer until there was no useful distance left between us.
Later, we lay beneath the sheet while the ceiling fan clicked once during every rotation.
Annie listened to it for several minutes.
“That fan requires attention.”
“It has always clicked.”
“It sounds like it is counting something.”
“Possibly your remaining hours here.”
“That became dark.”
“I’m tired.”
She turned onto her side.
“Do you regret this?”
The question came quickly.
My answer did too.
“No.”
Annie’s shoulders lowered.
“I’m not regretting it,” I said again. “I may become complicated in the morning.”
“I expect complexity.”
“You say that now.”
“I met your parents.”
“Fair.”
Her fingers moved lightly across the inside of my wrist.
“What are we doing?”
There it was.
The question we had avoided at the seawall.
“You said you wanted to date me.”
“I do.”
“I invited you back, kissed you, and removed you from the spare room.”
“All true.”
“That seems consistent with dating.”
“Should we notify anyone?”
