Alan remembered the little fist in the dirt. “You can wait in the car if you want,” he said.
Krishna came home,
(she said, as they sat in the parked car at a wide spot in the highway, looking at the mountains on the horizon)
Krishna came home,
(she said, after he’d pulled off the road abruptly, put the car into park, and stared emptily at the mountains ahead of them)
Krishna came home,
(she said, lighting a cigarette and rolling down the window and letting the shush of the passing cars come fill the car, and she didn’t look at him, because the expression on his face was too terrible to behold)
and he came through the door with two bags of groceries and a bottle of wine under one arm and two bags from a ravewear shop on Queen Street that I’d walked past a hundred times but never gone into.
He’d left me in his apartment that morning, with his television and his books and his guitar, told me to make myself at home, told me to call in sick to work, told me to take a day for myself. I felt… glorious. Gloried in. He’d been so attentive.