“Get up, husband.”
He kissed her hands.
She lifted his head in her two palms, lifted him up. His lips were on hers.
They were thin, sweet, laden now with little gasps of air warmed sweet in sweet lungs: no smells of liquor and smoke like a hot corrugation scraping her sense.
He broke from her and sat in a chair. His breath was sudden, he had run a race. One hand lay palpitant against a knee: breathless, afraid, a being out of its element. She thought of a sea. He was fished up dry from a sea.
“Harry,” she spoke low. She knelt at his feet: she looked up: she could smile now.
“No ... let me. Let me always.”
His dry hands, tremulous, waved about her hair: seeking, afraid: they were moths now, fluttering upon a light: so his eyes. His face was pale and hurt turned down upon her smiling. Fluttering search collapsed. He hid his face in his hands.
“Do not cry now.” She felt shut out by his hiding hands.