“I’m not going to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
She nods once.
The pause stretches.
Then she says, “Thank you.”
“For not talking?”
“For that too.”
I look at the wet tarmac.
“You really don’t have to keep thanking me.”
“I'm aware but we’ve already established I’m doing it anyway.”
“Right.”
“I meant what I said earlier.”
“That you’re somewhere between actual all right and professionally acceptable all right?”
“That too.” She turns the mug in her hands. “But mainly thank you for not making it worse.”
“That’s a low bar.”
“You’d be surprised how many people can’t clear it.”
“I didn’t know what to do,” I admit.
“You did fine.”
“I mostly stood there.”
“No. You let me be.”
I look at her then.
She is still staring out into the yard, jaw set, profile lit by the station lights. Clean-shaven has made my own face feel too exposed for days. Looking at her now, I wonder if this is what exposure really is. Not skin. Not softness. The choice not to hide a true thing once it has already been seen.
“That didn’t feel like enough,” I say.
“It was.”
The simplicity of it stops me.
I do not know what to do with enough when it comes from her.
So I drink more terrifying tea.
She notices.
“Too sweet?”
“It’s medicinal.”
“It’s not that bad.”
