had any.
The man who had written a letter, carefully hidden it behind a drawer, recruited our daughter, spoken to our financial adviser, and trusted that someday I would find everything exactly when I needed it.
I thought about Akron in 1978.
A hardware-store aisle.
A twenty-six-year-old electrician who noticed a confused woman staring at weatherstripping.
Medium density.
The right fit.
I turned off the lamp.
Then I climbed into bed beside him.
David’s warmth was familiar in a way almost nothing else in life was.
Outside, the February night
