Chapter 16: Upstairs

The doctor let me go home on Tuesday, on three conditions.

I had to wear a mask on the stairs, wash every dish twice, and keep the neighbor's cat out of my flat.

Gael carried my bags up the stairs behind the shop.

He had been there first.

The floor was scrubbed, the windows were open, and a new set of white sheets lay folded on the bed with the creases still sharp.

"I didn't know what you'd like," he said. "So I bought the plainest ones."

"They're perfect."

"They're a hospital color."

"They're a clean color," I said. "It's the best color I know right now."

He set my last bag on the chair and stood in the middle of my small room with his hands at his sides.

He stood there awkwardly, as if he had planned to leave and had no idea how.

"I'll go downstairs," he said. "There's a proof I should look at."

"You've never looked at a proof in your life after six."

"It's a long proof."

I closed the door behind him, and I stayed with my hand on the handle.

Then I turned around.

"Gael."

"Yes."

"I walked up the stairs in a mask, and I'm not even out of breath."

"You're a little out of breath."

"A little. It's a good little."

I took my mask off and put it in the bin.

I crossed the room and took hold of his shirt in both hands, the way I had under the lemon tree.

He stopped pretending to look for a proof.

"You've been through a lot," he said, very low. "I can wait."

"I can't."

That was all it took.

His mouth came down on mine, and this time there was nothing careful in it.

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