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A roll of her shoulder, a sway to the right, and her wrist settled alongside his on the armrest. She’d expected skyrockets. What she felt was not hiss, bang, sizzle. But the tiny hairs along her arm did sort of—well—dance. He didn’t mutter under his breath or pull away so she crooked her little finger, scratching softly along the outside of his hand. Her nail caught on something in the dark—a tiny patch of cushion, slick and square—then tripped over a long ridge of hardened flesh. Did his skin vibrate under her touch? She inhaled. The scent of coconut and black pepper filled her nose. Maybe a whiff of WD-40. She held the air in her lungs for a heartbeat. Savored it. Puffed it back out. Then lifted her whole hand and set it atop of his. His knuckles bumped along in a line under her palm: knotting tightly at first, then shifting and rippling as if they were thinking about making a run for it. She counted to twenty in her head. He didn’t move again. She counted to ten, her pinkie finger

The screen door had barely smacked him in the ass when she hailed from the pantry. “Hon? That you?” She leaned out into the kitchen, box cutter in one hand, can of chickpeas in the other. “Where’ve you been?” He raised his palm like a schoolboy, then noticed the silly canvas glove still covering it. He dropped it to his side, resisting the urge to hide it behind his back. Her eyebrows scrunched. “Gardening? Now? With everything we need to unpack?” “You said you wanted the flower bed weeded. Right? The rose bushes whacked?” He lifted ten grimy digits and waggled them at her. “I live to please.” “Hon! Be careful! I just mopped the floor.” He turned to the sink and slapped his hands together. Bits of wet slippery mulch and gritty soil scattered into the basin. If only the cartoon fruit came off as easily, he thought. “You weren’t hiding out, were you?” she asked. “Still mad at me about the matchbook thing?” He shrugged. Someday, when he hit Chicago again, he’d grab a new book to