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Summary
“I was…I was going to tell you, when I came back from Sannikov.” Michael breathes it out like cigarette smoke, where it curls around them in the rain. He looks down at their joined hands, his own freckled knuckles and Gerry’s flaking black nail-polish. “I had this whole corny letter and everything, wrote it down on the plane so I could practice.”
“What did it say?” It feels equal parts tender and devastating, watching Michael’s downturned eyes - the fan of his pale lashes against his cheek.
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Michael and Gerry, after things have gone twisty and back again.