You held the little arch above us for twenty minutes and never once noticed your hand. I did. The four fingers curled around the plastic grip, the thumb bearing down, the small muscles in your forearm firing over and over to keep the whole flimsy dome from folding backward in the wind. That was work. Real work, the honest kind, and you gave it no thought at all, which is fine, that's what I'm for.
Here is what the day actually was, from in here: cold water finding the back of your neck anyway, right at the collar, and a shiver I sent up your spine that you called nothing. The other hand, jammed in a pocket, gone stiff. Your shoulders climbing toward your ears the way they do when you brace.
Your breath short and high, sipping the wet air. And your feet, oh, your feet, in shoes that let the sidewalk in one puddle at a time, ten small cold toes I kept warm as long as I could.
You thought you were staying dry. Mostly you were staying upright and holding a sail against a sky that wanted it back. I felt the exact second you gave up on the left side and just let that shoulder get soaked so the bag would stay covered. I logged that. That was kind of you, to the bag.
We're home now. The grip has released; the forearm is still humming a little, telling me it happened.
Could you do one thing before you forget me again? Peel off the wet socks. Let the feet breathe. That's all.
I'll handle the rest, same as always.