It was a golden end.
To the day. To their journey. To what they managed to do together, for the first time in a long time without bitter exchanges that gouged their hearts and left them both scarred.
The trip to Santo Tomas was an impromptu thing. The healing they’d invested in was not.
“We could go, you know,” he’d mentioned as she’d browsed to pass the time while waiting outside the therapist’s office. It was always an awkward time, sitting together in the ante room, aware that what came next was lancing boils and airing out things too noxious to attempt alone.
“Can we, though?” she’d replied, layering many meanings.
“I think so,” he’d said.
His hesitation, more than anything, was what had her agree.
The therapist’s hesitation, too. She wanted to prove the woman wrong.
She watched him jog by sun-glow. Her heart warmed. They were going home.
For What Pegman Saw: Santo Tomás
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