He met Selena on a Sunday at her apartment, which was on the fourteenth floor of a building in Midtown that smelled like good candles and had a view of the city that she had never once used as a backdrop for photographs despite having every opportunity, which had always been one of the things he respected about her.
She made tea and he sat on her sofa and she sat across from him in a chair and tucked her feet under herself with the ease of someone in their own space, and they looked at each other with the honesty of two people who have agreed, ahead of time, not to perform anything.
"You know," he said.
"I've known for a while," she said. "I wasn't sure you knew."
"I wasn't."
"And now?"
He looked at his hands. "She stood at my kitchen window at three in the morning without saying anything. Just stood there." He paused. "I think that was the moment I stopped being able to argue with myself about it."
