It was a good day.
Genuinely good, in the uncomplicated way that I still approached with a degree of suspicion not the acute suspicion of the early months, but the residual kind, the habit of a person who had learned to look twice at things that seemed too straightforward.
He had been in Atlanta since Thursday. We'd had dinner Friday. Saturday morning I had known where he kept his coffee in the temporary flat and made it without asking, and he had come in from the shower and seen it on the counter and said nothing, just picked it up, and that specific normalcy had sat in me all day with a quality I was still learning to name.
Sunday we had Ngozi.
She had commandeered the afternoon lunch at hers, the kind of invitation that wasn't really an invitation, just an announcement of where we w
