So I put the bag down. I walked back into the kitchen. I took the coffee from his hand, set it on the counter, and kissed him again—not like a goodbye this time. Like a beginning.
I picked up my duffel. The screen door whined. On the porch, the first yellow leaf of September had landed on the railing, delicate as a warning. We-ll Always Have Summer
He took the wine glass from my hand, set it on the counter, and kissed me. It tasted like salt and the end of things. I let myself fall into it—the scratch of his jaw, the warm hollow of his collarbone, the way his hand found the small of my back like it had been looking for it all year. So I put the bag down
I laughed, because that was what we did. We laughed to keep the thing at bay. “You want me to stay for a plum ?” Like a beginning