my arms are full of mail from him as I walk out of the clubhouse. I pause to talk to Sam who is crossing the parking lot, because she is expecting a check and I thought I saw it but I couldn't remember. The cleaning agency did a good job this time, she tells me. And I start to ask her about our new roommate who pulled the fire alarm in our apartment that morning and set the sprinklers off, when there are arms wrapping around me from behind. I turn, clutching the huge pile of mail to my chest, confused. But it's him. And I'm dropping the mail and my hands clutch his suit coat and I can't let go because it's him. It was noon, I still had five hours to kill and I hadn't bothered to put my make up on and he's early because he flew in the night before and I don't care that my hair isn't done because it's him. And his parents are there, watching and smiling and I'm not afraid of anything anymore, because it is him.
hi, he says.
hi, i say back.
instinctively, i reach out for his hand, but hesitate. He's freshly returned. Don't rush him, I think, don't rush.
But his hand reaches back and finds mine. you're real, i tell him.
yes, he says, i am.
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