Judy Greer

Finally, a Friday night that bled into Saturday morning and Saturday afternoon, his apartment dark, shades drawn throughout, his bedroom small and kempt and severe, his body also small and kempt and severe, his mouth unyielding, his skin so too somehow.

He was nothing like the boys and men she'd known growing up, affable in their baseball caps and worn jeans, their coolers of beer and soda on the porch or in the truck bed, ready for anyone who might happen along.

They were expansive.

They were as undemanding as a soft May sky.

When Martin kissed her, she felt a weight of gravity she had not felt before.

When he touched her, she felt somehow solemnified.

The question she finally asked herself was not, do you love him, but can you love him?

Will you love him?

Yes, I will be able to do that.

So then...

There are some promises, Elizabeth says, still holding her glass aloft, that will ruin you if you keep them past the point of... She stops searching, and Monica can see the echo of her son in the upward glance of an eye, the slight tension of the jaw as she thinks.

I don't know.

She finally says, laughing, if you keep them past their own point, I suppose, past their point of usefulness...

Tried, Monica says, desperate, close to tears.

I can't even tell you how long.

But Elizabeth shakes her head, silver hair and amethyst earrings swinging, and holds up a hand to stop her.

A toast, she says, to my son, who was your husband for longer than I expected him to be.

She touches her glass to Monica's and sips, sets the glass down, and leads forward to rest her hands on Monica's knees.

I know, Martin, she says, and I believe you did the best you could.

Drink, my dear.