She'd been over since dinner. She'd come because she needed to, not because I did. Her week had been a mess — the thing with her brother, the thing with work, all of it stacked. We'd put our mugs in the sink a while back and now she was at the door, putting her coat on, and she looked tired in the small hollowed-out way that grief looks tired. I stood in the hallway and tried to hold a quiet attention around her while she worked out the zipper — no fussing, no advice, just being here. She said goodnight, said we should do this again soon. I said of course, any time, and I said it to mean it. I watched her get to the gate. She was carrying so much tonight and I hoped she could feel, walking home, that she'd been held for five hours by someone who wasn't going to let go of her.
