She went still. I hadn’t planned to say it in a parked car beside a dark bookstore, and I realized that waiting for the ideal setting had always been another way to postpone being vulnerable. Maya looked at me with her lips slightly parted, and I asked whether she was experiencing a system failure. She whispered, “Temporary,” before unbuckling her seat belt and leaning across the console to kiss me.
When she pulled back, her eyes were bright. “I love you too,” she said, and the relief was so immediate I had to laugh at myself. She asked whether I had been worried, and when I admitted a little, she looked pleased in a way that was deeply unfair. I kissed her again before she could make the expression any worse, and for once the future was allowed to remain uncertain without spoiling the present.
Three months later, Walter produced exactly one lemon. Maya called while I was in a meeting and informed me that his destiny had been fulfilled, then told me to explain the interruption as an agricultural emergency. We still played trivia, argued about parking, and disagreed about whether my cooking deserved respect or supervision. Dating hadn’t erased the friendship; it had added kisses in the kitchen, a spare key on her ring, and conversations neither of us was allowed to finish with only a punchline.
