Luke sat on the couch and listened to her footfalls on the stairs and the squeaking of the joists as she went into the room Shawn was using. Luke pondered her comment. He wasn’t sure what she meant, so when she returned he asked her.

“I meant I wanted to get up there now before I was settled,” Sana said, making herself comfortable with her feet on the coffee table, “and before we were into some interesting conversation.” She was eager to hear more of his story than the rote version he’d told her.

“Is he okay?” Luke asked. He couldn’t help but remember his father and the violence alcohol engendered.

“He’s on the bed and passed out, if that’s your definition of okay.”

“Since we talked about it last night, I still don’t know why he stopped sleeping with you.”

“It’s simpler now than it was six months ago when it was more his idea than mine. We’ve grown apart. Have you noticed how little we touch? What I’m talking about is little things, like my putting my arm on his shoulder, like this.” Sana was sitting to Luke’s right, so she lifted her left arm and casually draped it across Luke’s shoulder behind his neck. Then she pulled her arm back and laid it along his leg with her hand on his knee. “Or even just sitting close with my arm on his knee. When we were first married, we both did such little physical things that were no more than an urge to let the other know that we were together, and that we were enjoying being together, like I’m doing to you. But all that stopped, and as I said, at first it was him, but now it is us. At first I thought it had something to do with our large age difference, but now I’m not so sure: I’m afraid it is more.”

Luke felt a sudden heat enter his leg and travel up toward his groin. He was infinitely conscious of Sana’s arm against his thigh and that her hand was ever so loosely clasped over the top of his knee. It was as if her fingers were on fire.