“Have you?”
“Not yet.”
“Third drawer in the library.”
I laughed.
Richard rarely did.
Not loudly.
When he truly found something funny, his head went back and his entire face changed.
He looked twenty years younger.
I grew addicted to causing it.
Three months after we met, he proposed.
There was no violinist.
No restaurant.
No photographer hiding behind a tree.
We were sitting in his kitchen at seven in the morning.
I was barefoot.
Richard was eating toast.
He put down the newspaper and said, “I would like you to stay.”
“I am staying until nine.”
“No.
I mean longer.”
“Until lunch?”
He stared at me.
I stopped smiling.
“Richard…”
“I know how this looks.”
“Do you?”
“I’m old.”
“Yes.”
“You’re young.”
“Relatively.”
“I’m wealthy.”
“Obscenely.”
“You’re struggling financially.”
I stiffened.
He saw it.
Richard always saw it.
“I’m not insulting you.”
“It sounded like you were building an argument.”
