Dante is on the couch, not in his usual end seat, but in the middle, remote on the table, a throw blanket crumpled beside him like an awkward invitation.
He glances over as I slip in.
Doesn’t smile.
Just lifts the blanket in silent question.
I roll my eyes and sit at the opposite end.
He lets the blanket fall between us, a neutral zone.
We watch in silence.
The actors argue about love and fate and trains leaving stations. Cigarette smoke curls in monochrome. Someone sings softly over an accordion.
Halfway through, Dante gets up without a word and disappears into the hall.
I assume he left.
He comes back with tea.
Sets a mug on the table in front of me.
Chamomile.
Honey.
The way I used to drink it before shows when my throat ached.
“I didn’t ask for this,” I say.
“I know wha
