After the guests left, washing dishes, Jasmine said, "Do you think we're happy?"
Marcus considered the word. Happy was a balloon. What they had was denser. "I think we're built," he said. "I think we're still building. Happy shows up and leaves. Built stays if you maintain it."
She bumped his hip with hers. "That's the least romantic true thing you've ever said."
"I can try again. You look beautiful in dish soap bubbles."
"Better."
Autumn again — the anniversary of the homecoming, marked not with a ritual they announced but with a quiet walk to the park and the bench. Shadow moved slowly. They sat. The Labrador of years ago was gone; a new young dog chased a ball in the same arc of grass. Marcus said, "I don't forgive you every day. Some days I just... don't pick up the anger. That's different from forgiveness, maybe. Or it's the daily form of it."
Jasmine said, "I don't absolve myself every day. Some days I just make his breakfast and take him into the yard and let the action be the apology."