Page 82 of Crosswind

I carry both trays to the bedroom.

He is still asleep, on his back now, one arm across the pillow where I was. The Amsterdam morning light coming through the curtains, the first hint of autumn in the quality of it — softer, later, the particular light of September giving way.

I set his tray on the nightstand. I sit on the edge of the bed.

"Patrick," I say.

Nothing.

I lean in. "Baby," I say quietly, into his hair.

He surfaces slowly. I kiss him before he is fully awake, then unfold the tray legs and set the breakfast across the duvet.

He looks at the pancakes, smoothie, and tea. Then at me.

"Good morning," I say.

He is still not entirely awake, assembling the information. "Jan," he says. "What is…”

"Breakfast," I say. "In bed."

He looks at me for a long moment. Something arrives in his face and stays.

"I've never had breakfast in bed," he says. Quietly.

I look at him. At Patrick in this moment — the one that receives things without knowing what to do with them, the one that is, underneath everything, the person who always gave and was not given back.

"Well," I say. "Now you have."

He reaches out and takes my hand. Holds it. Says nothing.

We have breakfast in bed in the Friday Amsterdam morning and I feel something I have no intention of qualifying.

The morning is slow and good.

Afterwards… trays on the nightstand, tea finished, the Amsterdam morning properly arrived, Patrick lies on his back with my head on his chest and runs his hand through my hair and says nothing and I listen to his heartbeat and think about all the ways a person can be known.

"You noticed the blueberries," he says eventually.

"Months ago." I look at the ceiling.

"You remembered." He goes quiet for a moment, his hand stilling in my hair.

"I remember things." I keep looking at the ceiling.

"Jan." He tips my chin up so I have to look at him. His face, very close, entirely open. "You're extraordinary."

"I made pancakes," I say.

"You made pancakes because you noticed I always eat the blueberry ones first and you filed it and waited for the right moment." He looks at me. "That's not nothing."

I look at the ceiling.

"Come here," he says, and pulls me up and kisses me properly, thoroughly, the Friday morning version, and I let him.

It is starting to feel like autumn. The light lower, the leaves beginning, the Amsterdam October-approaching feeling in the air — still warm enough for shirtsleeves, cool enough that you feel it when you stop. I have a route planned. Patrick rides beside me with his jacket open and his face up and the expression he has when he is entirely happy.

"You planned a route," he says.