“I think the rain might stop soon,” I say.
“Mmm,” you say, noncommittal.
“I might go out. When it stops, I mean. For a walk.”
“Good idea,” you say, without looking up.
“Do you want to come?”
“No, that’s alright. You go ahead.”
I hesitate. “Are you sure you’ll be …”
Safe, I want to say. Alright. Still alive when I get back.
But I don’t say any of these things and you just sit and look at me. No anger on your face, no recrimination, just a kind of mild curiosity as if you really don’t know what’s worrying me.
I cross the floor and put my hand on your shoulder. I just want to feel you there, reassuringly warm and solid under my palm.
You reach up and squeeze my hand.
You don’t look at me as you return to your crossword.
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