You lean toward me in the middle of a crowded room. ‘Do you wanna go home?’ You whisper in my ear. You could look at me like that for years. I’d always put down my wine glass to follow you. Even though we’re going to our separate beds under our separate roofs, we act as though ‘going home’ means our home. Maybe that space already exists. We’ve been building the foundation for years. Bricks, windows, the front door. Everything is solid. All that’s left is to cover the walls in bright blues that look like a clear sky and your eyes. We say our goodbyes. Your hand on my shoulder and mine touching your cheek. I’m not sure if it’s habit or comfort or us trying to feel how the other feels. As though our skin will reveal braille that will tell us what we’re not ready to admit. The freckles on my shoulder tells you almost and your dimples tells me soon . Last night you called me the time of day you look forward to. As though I’m on your watch instead of 7....