She kissed him on the same terrace above the same sea where, one year ago, she had told him she hated him and meant it and meant the other thing underneath it equally. He kissed her back like a man who was done with careful and had decided that some things were worth the risk of not being careful, and she thought: yes, that, exactly that, this is exactly what I asked for.
Below them, the city ran its enormous life. The water moved in the dark. Somewhere a ship was crossing the harbour with lights that looked like small certainties in a large uncertainty, and that was probably a metaphor but she was too happy to work it out precisely.
She would work it out later. She had learned to be a person who could let things be imprecise and return to them when she had the time, and that had cost her something too, a different kind of cost, the cost of learning to not manage everything, and it had been worth it.
It had been worth it.
