The first kiss was gentle enough that I could have mistaken it for a question. The second came after she whispered, “That was inconveniently good,” and curled her fingers around the front of my shirt. Somewhere nearby, a bus sighed at the curb and someone dropped a plastic fork, ordinary sounds continuing around the strangest, happiest thing that had happened to me in years. On the walk back to the car, Maya slid her hand into mine without asking what it meant.
For ten days, everything familiar acquired a second meaning. She came over on Sunday in pajama pants and stole half my coffee, which was normal, then kissed me before giving the mug back, which made me forget what I had been saying. I helped carry flour into the bakery, and she caught my sleeve between the storage shelves to tell me the blue shirt was still working. We were ourselves in all the recognizable ways, except now there was this astonishing permission tucked inside the smallest moments.
