Here we are again, standing in a warm hallway that smells of pineapple and other people's evening, and I want you to know I have noticed we have not sat down in five hours. The feet have gone from complaint to a low steady hum I am choosing to route around. Both of them are swollen a little inside those shoes, which is fine, I have rerouted the pooling blood, do not thank me.
You are doing that thing again where you smile at the woman ahead of us, the big open smile, and I feel the jaw let go for one whole second and it is glorious, and then the music thumps through the wall and the shoulders climb back up toward the ears like they have somewhere to be. The bass is inside the ribs now. I am timing the heartbeat to it because it is easier than arguing.
You think you are waiting for a door. I am waiting too, but for different reasons. I have been quietly holding a great deal for hours, and behind the sternum there is a small dry ache I have been meaning to mention: that is not the night, that is thirst. You drank three things tonight and none of them was the thing I actually need.
The line moves. You shuffle us forward half a step and check the glowing rectangle and forget to breathe out, so I do it for you, a long slow one through the nose, on your behalf, no charge.
I will get us home. I always do, feet and all.
But when we get there, before the bed, before anything: one glass of water, cold, all at once. Just the one. I have carried the whole night.
Let me have this.