“Can I forgive you a little now?” I asked. “And then a little more tomorrow, and the next day? If there is a next day?” “Yes,” she said, quickly, like it was more than she had asked for. Like I might take it back. “Provided you don’t blow anything up, of course.” “Yes.” “Or try to look in my ears again while I’m sleeping—” “Yes,” she said, laughing. That look on her face, always, like she was surprised to be laughing, like it was something involuntary and slightly shameful, like a sneeze. I couldn’t take it. “I missed you,” I said, gripping her shoulders. She was here. She was here, and I
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