“All right,” I say. I go to him and place my lips, closed, against his. I smell the shaving lotion, the usual kind, the hint of mothballs, familiar enough to me. But he’s like someone I’ve only just met. He draws away, looks down at me. There’s the smile again, the sheepish one. Such candor. “Not like that,” he says. “As if you meant it.” He was so sad. That is a reconstruction, too.
