Richard, if asked by a friend at work whether he loved his son, would have said of course, offended. Of course was true. Of course does not prevent a hand. Of course does not prevent a sentence about birth. Love that has to win will put its hand on a shoulder and call the hand a point. The marble island received the point and sent it back as a stumble.
The two wine glasses were cheap enough to replace and expensive in the way objects become expensive when they witness. After the freeze they would still be there, smudged, unfinished, a couple’s truce that had not survived the voicemail. Nobody raises them in the last frame. Nobody should.
If this were a longer night in a different kind of story, someone would apologize in the doorway and someone would pack a bag and someone would call a sister. This is not that night on the page. This is ten seconds in a large eat-in kitchen with white shaker cabinets and warm under-cabinet lighting and a refrigerator of photographs and hardwood and a boy who said yes because of her.
Begin on the two-shot.
The shove.
Widen to three.
Push to Andre.
The quiet line.