On the sidewalk, just after one in the morning, on a hot, sticky summer night, she wrapped her arms around him. She kissed him long, slow, deep. Pressing in more when she felt his hand fist on the back of her jacket. “All that,” he murmured, “for arranging a viewing?” “No, all that for thinking of it, for knowing how much it’ll mean, how much it’ll push the ugly of what happened away. Then arranging it.” She drew him back, kissed him again. “For that.”
