Sunday morning I woke up expecting it to feel different.
Not bad, necessarily. Just changed. The way a room feels after you've moved the furniture. Same space, different weight distribution.
I lay there and took stock. The flat was the same. The ceiling, the light, the sound of the building. My own breathing. All the same.
What I'd said yesterday was still out there somewhere. Not gone, not retractable. Just said. Sitting in the world now, taking up space.
I waited for the embarrassment to arrive. The specific regret of having shown too much to someone who hadn't asked for it. The retroactive wish that I'd kept the conversation functional, kept to the surface, kept it professional.
It didn't come.
That itself was information.
He texted at ten.
Walking to get coffee. You want one?
