of sound. It was the absence of someone else’s disorder.
“I hope that gets easier,” I said.
He laughed sadly. “That’s such a Claire answer.”
“Probably.”
“Do you miss me?”
There was fear but no accusation in the question. I gave him the truth.
“Sometimes.”
He drew a breath.
“But I don’t miss us.”
“That makes sense.”
“Yes.”
We said goodbye, and I made coffee.
A month afterward, I went on an actual date. Thomas was fifty-four, widowed, an engineer, and a friend of a colleague. He talked a little too long about hiking boots before catching himself and apologizing. We met at a neighborhood restaurant, ate pasta, and laughed. There was no instant chemistry, romantic soundtrack, or transformative kiss in the parking lot. When he offered dessert, I said yes simply because I wanted some. Even that felt new.
We went out again, and again, without hurried promises or
