Rudie climbed the porch steps. Her cheeks smarted. Dylan had scratched her skin with his whiskers, the way he used to. She hadn’t expected Dylan to kiss her and for that kiss to last long enough to mean they still had a connection. Or did she just pity his vision loss? She’d have to give the moment’s meaning some thought.
The top step had a worn board. When she and Leo bought the house, their first, it shone in their minds in all its renovated glory. Rudie’s films beckoned her this way, too, objects of perfect unreachable light. The first year, they’d ripped the stained grey carpet from the stairs, then pried nail-studded plywood strips using a hammer claw. They’d sanded the wood smooth and stained it. The only imperfections – knots and chips in the wood – were the sort that pleased her.
