“You had a piece of hair in your face,” I said. “Yes,” she whispered. I sat next to her, with my hand placed between us. “That was bothering...me. Usually your hair looks so—perfect.” She nodded. “It goes well with your face. Because it’s perfect, you know?” She lowered the book, let it fall somewhere to the floor, then turned to look straight at me. Under the intensity of that particular gaze, I felt more comfortable around her than I had ever been. “And your hands?” I grabbed one of her hands. I nodded.“How’d it happen?” she asked.“Car accident. Just some random thing.”She rushed into my arms, eyes misting over, and hugged me tight as I held her.“I’m so sorry, Paul,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I know how much she meant to you.”I nodded; my eyes stung, and I blinked back tears of my own. I shook my head, as if doing so could ward off the tears that were welling up. I was a grown man, I hadn’t cried in years. Many years.“When’s the funeral?” she asked.I swallowed. More

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