Raymond walked quickly, and I began to worry that I wouldn’t be able to keep pace with him in my new boots.
I noticed him glance at me, and then he slowed his steps to match mine.
I realized that such small gestures—the way his mother had made me a cup of tea after our meal without asking,
remembering that I didn’t take sugar, the way Laura had placed two little biscuits on the saucer when she brought me coffee in the salon—
such things could mean so much. I wondered how it would feel to perform such simple deeds for other people.
I couldn’t remember. I had done such things in the past, tried to be kind, tried to take care, I knew that I had, but that was before.
I tried, and I had failed, and all was lost to me afterward. I had no one to blame but myself.
It was quiet out in the suburbs; the views were open, with no tenements or high-rise blocks to obscure the distant hills.
The light was soft and gentle—summer was drifting ever onward and the evening seemed delicate, fragile.
We walked in silence, the kind that you didn’t feel the need to fill.
I was almost sad when we arrived at the squat, white clubhouse.
It was halfway to dark by then, with both a moon and a sun sitting high in a sky that was sugar almond pink and shot with gold.
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