At the reception, Maya and I danced badly enough to require several apologies. She stepped on my foot, blamed my leadership, and nearly collided with a centerpiece when I attempted a turn beyond my qualifications. Then the music slowed, and she rested her head against my shoulder while the room moved around us. I could feel her hand settle more comfortably into mine, a familiar gesture I no longer had to pretend meant less than it did.
She said she still thought I had been dramatic about the first conversation. I reminded her that she had tried to refrigerate her phone and asked whether windshield wipers had different personalities, which she continued to insist was a valid question. We laughed quietly, and then she lifted her head enough to look at me. “I’m glad you waited,” she said, with a seriousness that made me hold her a little closer.
