LENA

We sat like that.

I do not have a more precise way to say it. We sat like that, his arm on the table and mine visible and the coffee getting warm between our hands and the morning doing its slow and tentative work outside the window. We did not talk about it further. Not the scar and not mine, not the sources or the specifics or the particular narratives that lived in the skin. We had given each other the essential thing and we did not require the rest of it, not yet, not now, not at four in the morning in a kitchen with the city going...