I was in the car and you were still upstairs in my bed. Comfortable isn’t the right word, but it didn’t feel bizarre, either, waiting in the backseat while Andrea ran inside to say goodbye to you. February, you said. You’ll be back in February. Look at us; we’re like those idiots who can’t stop touching things, picking and scratching and peeling at their cuticles while they talk, with no idea what else there is to do with their hands. I know we’re both used to this, but for a while I almost forgot I had hands. I’m sorry this is how it always has to go. But this time we were both closer. Come back soon. No one looks graceful when they fall out of focus like a window.
