“Some things never change,” he said. “You’re in the west . . .” She looked down, at her toes pointed directly at his, with the prime meridian running right between them. “And you’re in the east,” she said. “Worlds apart.” “And yet . . .” His fingers reached for hers, knuckles brushing and waiting. Patient, steady, as she slowly laced hers between his. Familiar and yet . . . so different from when he’d held her hand on the Tube as teens. So very, very different. As if every moment between then and now had been leading up to this, the homecoming of their hands.
