I said it as a joke in a corridor when I was 30 and foolish and had no idea what I was saying. I would like to say it now and mean it if you will allow me to.
She descended the last three steps. She was very close to him now. Close enough to see that he was breathing unevenly.
That his hands, without the hat, without the gloves, were not entirely steady. This man who was always steady.
This man who had built steadiness into an art form. I’ve been waiting 10 years for this. She whispered.
He heard it. The weight of all 10 years in four words. The choosing and the choosing again.
The patience that was never passivity. Something broke open in him at the words. Quietly, without drama, the way ice breaks in spring.
Not with violence, but with the long inevitability of a season finally changing. He reached for her hand.
Both of them. Bare. No gloves. No ceremony.
And held it in his with a care that was new in him. That he was clearly learning as he went.