Even though it wasn’t even her memory, she was taken with that warm-bath, turkey-sandwich, almost-but-not-quite-melancholy feeling. That unnamable something bobbing in her stomach, her chest, her solar plexus. As if she had actually been there, next to the little grapefruit tree, dipping her turkey into mustard. He couldn’t name the feeling, but she knew it exactly. It was the feeling of being known.
