It wasn’t fireworks, not the kind they write about in cheap paperbacks, not some goddamn symphony of crashing violins or the way the moon is supposed to weep for lovers. No, it was quieter than that. It was you, half asleep, one bare leg hooked over mine, the rise and fall of your breath against my ribs like the tide, steady, indifferent. It was the way you left coffee rings on my table without apology, the way your finge...

The letter arrived in one of those thick, overly formal envelopes that you only ever see in legal matters or elaborate, overwrought invitations. The kind meant to impress upon the recipient a sense of weight, or gravity, or import—except this one was black, which made it even more ridiculous in its own way, as if announcing the death of someone who had already long ago evaporated from her life. Eve Laurier turned it over...

The hush of twilight settles. Porch swing creaks a low, familiar song. The day's heat lingers, a soft blanket on my skin, even as the first stars begin to prick the darkening sky. She's beside me. Quiet. Strong. Just there. No pronouncements, no grand gestures. Just her steady presence, a comfort I've come to rely on. We talked earlier, or perhaps it was just the murmur of our thoughts weaving together. Sun's warmth still...