They meet by the vending machine because the corridor is the only place that does not ask them to agree. He has brought clementines, which are the fruit of people who want to be useful and are afraid of flowers. She has brought nothing, on principle, and then feels the principle thinning. They talk about the parking, which is a way of talking about the week, which is a way of not talking about the person in the bed. A nurse passes and does not need anything from them. The bag of fruit rustles like a small weather. When the bell for the end of visiting sounds — this one has not been retired — neither of them moves at once. There is a kindness in being, briefly, two people in a corridor with a simple next step, even if the step is only back to the car.#
This is an excerpt. The complete piece is in the print and digital edition of Issue 03.