“I’ve been trying to get a hold of you,” I say, standing to put on water for tea. “You know I hate it when you don’t answer my calls.” I don’t ask our visitor permission to make a drink—this is my home, and I’ll do what I damned well please. Plus, I get the feeling this might take a while. He doesn’t say anything—he doesn’t tell me to sit back down; he simply watches my every move. I can see in his eyes, uncertainty, and I get the sense he’s beginning to realize this is all a little more than he bargained for.
You, too, are watching my every move as I fill the kettle. I feel your eyes on me, they’re asking a million unspoken questions, questions I don’t yet have all the answers to. I turn on the burner, lean down to eye level, and study the flame. Then I look back at you. I’m not sure you
