“It’s okay,” he said. “In the fullness of time. Everything happens in the fullness of time.”

They walked together to the subway, Sylvia carrying her flowers through these streets that she knew and where she was known, past old houses whose shuttered windows and drawn curtains seemed to turn a blind eye to this indiscretion, no longer feeling fit to judge, having witnessed for over a hundred years this same couple in different incarnations, making this journey toward the blissful possibilities of uncertainty.

They were lovers now. It was clear to anyone who saw them. Clear but not provable. But people can see things, and know them, without being able to explain. What did it mean, for example, that he would sweep back hedges with the forearm of his new white shirt for the simple pleasure of being beside her instead of ahead or behind? Or that her smaller, more softly shod feet were falling against the pavement in counterpoint to his longer, heavier stride, forming a single rhythm played by two? It meant that they were lovers. Lovers already in heart and mind … and very soon in body.

As they waited to cross a street, she dared to take his arm, tugging him back toward her as he leaned around a truck to check for oncoming traffic. The sensation of touching excited her. The naturalness of it. The way his smile told her it was okay for her to take responsibility for him. Desirable even.

“I didn’t tell you before,” she said as they neared the subway. They were on Henry Street, a thoroughfare flanked with storefront shops and a high-rise condo complex made of prefab concrete. “Thank you so much for the flowers. They are really beautiful. I couldn’t leave them at home. I have to take them to work with me. I hope you don’t think I’m countrified for doing that.”

“Would it matter what I think, though?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I really want you to like me right now.”

“Right now and not tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow too. But right now more than ever.”

“Okay, I like you now more than ever.”

When they reached the token booth he asked, “So when will I see you?”

“Call me at the office,” she replied. “We could have lunch. Where are you staying?”

“The Fulton Inn.”

“I didn’t mean to cry when I saw you,” she said. “I was just having a very bad morning.”

“And here I was, thinking they were tears of joy.”

“You’ve gotten lots of those, I’m sure,” she said. “You don’t need mine.”

“Yes I do. As a matter of fact I think you should cry for me right now to make me feel really wanted.”

“Boo-hoo, hoo. There you go.”

“Thank you.”

This feels so easy, she thought. So natural. She pressed her thumb against his lips, choosing it and not a finger for its softness and dexterity, for its ability to convey to him the impression of a kiss.