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He understands, of course he does. He crosses the room slowly, giving me time to flee, to speak, to change my mind. When he reaches me, he does not take the letter opener away. He does not touch me first. He just lowers himself to the rug before me, knees cracking softly with age. That sound would have made him complain dramatically once.

Tonight, he says nothing. He only kneels and waits. I look at his face, my beloved and my mind slips around him like a hand failing to hold water.

“I did not know you,” I whisper.

His mouth trembles. “For a moment.”

“I thought you were someone else.”

“I know.”

“I was going to hurt you.”

His eyes soften. “Very likely.”

A broken laugh escapes me, then the tears come streaming down my face hot, frustrated. My body rages with pure humiliation.

“I do not understand what is happening to me.” I choke out.

Lazarus closes his eyes, only for a second. When he opens them, he is steady again. I hate that he has had to become steady for this, for me.

“You have been having episodes,” he says gently.

I shake my head. “No. No, I was reading. I was only reading.”

“I know.”

“I knew where I was.”

“I know darling.”

“And then I did not.”

His hand rests on the arm of the chair, palm up. An offering and I stare at it.

So many years ago, I taught them to ask before touching. Now they ask in silence, it should comfort me. It does but it also breaks my heart. Placing my hand in his and his fingers close around mine carefully. Warm and a little rough but still my Lazarus.

“I hate this,” I whisper.

“I know darling.”

“No, you do not.” The anger rises fast, sharp, and childish. “I hate that everyone looks at me as if I am vanishing while I am still in the room. I hate that I lose words. That I forget doors and names and years. That I frighten you.”

“You do not frighten me.”

“Liar.” I snap.

He smiles sadly. “Occasionally.”

I try to pull my hand back and he lets me and that makes me cry harder. “I do not want to become a burden.”

His face changes but not anger, in pain. “Olive.”

“I do not – "

He halts my words, “you are not.”

“You say that now,” I exclaim.