She pressed her fingers to my temple, rubbing at the taut skin. I leaned my head against her trousers, which smelled of graphite and black coffee. She had us with a man she had been afraid of, although she would not tell us why. There were months when she spoke little, only wanted to often be holding us, ordered takeaways, had baths that lasted all afternoon. There were months when she told us she was living in a sadness the color of rust and leather.
