You changed clothes four times and I felt each one go on and come off, the cotton, then the stiffer thing with the buttons, then the soft one again. You settled on the soft one. Good. I liked the soft one.
At the table you did a strange thing you do: you told me there was no danger, and then you flooded me with everything I keep for danger. Heart going quick and high, up in the throat almost. Palms damp. A little cold current running down the arms. I readied the legs to run.
You did not run. You laughed at something and reached for the glass of water and I was so grateful for the water I could have wept, except that is your job, the weeping, and you were busy being charming.
I noticed you forgot to breathe all the way down. You took the top half of the breath, the polite half, and held the rest just under the ribs where I have been storing it since the appetizers. I noticed the foot. Under the table it never stopped, tapping out a code to nobody, working off what the face was too busy to show.
You didn't eat much. That's all right, I have reserves, I always keep reserves for you. And near the end, when they said something and you went quiet and warm and easy for a moment, the shoulders came down off the ears where they'd been camping, and everything in me unclenched at once, and I thought: oh. This one. She likes this one.
I'll keep the heart steady. I always do.
Just drink the water on the nightstand before you sleep. For me.
You forgot it last time.