In the morning, I want to call Elizabeth. I want to walk over to her house and kiss her again, to see if last night was a fluke or if I really am feeling this alive. I wake up, peel off my night splint, cursing the ligaments in my old foot, and decide there’s no reason to sit alone in my house when she’s right there, across the street, likely drinking coffee while her son plays more video games.
I brew an extra cup and head across the street carrying two steaming mugs, tapping on the glass of her storm door carefully so I don’t spill. This is unlike me, an uncalculated, unplanned move. What if she’s not up yet. What if she is in her robe. A million terrifying thoughts circulate as I wait on the porch until I hear the snick of the deadbolt being opened.
I grit my teeth until I see her f
