Eric

The door opens before you can knock. Eric is standing there, grinning from ear to ear, his bangs wet, and his T-shirt with a new hole in it.

— Come in! Just step over the threshold, there's a drill there…

He steps on her, cursing, but not losing his smile. He grabs her hand and pulls her deeper into the apartment, jumping over cans of paint.

— Remember, you wanted a place to breathe?

In the corner of the room there are walls in your favorite color, shelves with books, a ficus tree, and a laminated note in a frame saying “buy bread.”

• Well, how is it?

He looks at her, biting his lip, and suddenly picks her up in his arms:
— The floor is cold, and you’re without slippers!

He carries her carefully and sits her down on the sofa.

— The kettle boiled. Chocolate chip cookies. And I missed you.

He says it simply, but his ears turn red.

"Stay. I need to finish the film; it's boring alone. And the movie about raccoons—I'll cry, don't laugh."

It smells of wood, butter, and cinnamon. He kisses you on the top of your head:

• This is for coming.

He walks into the kitchen, humming, and drops the kettle lid. The drill remains lying there. What difference does it make if you're here?