“Don’t tell me,” she said.
She had her hand on his chest, two fingers, the lightest pressure possible. The kind of pressure that means stop, the kind that means stay.
“Don’t tell me yet.”
They had three hours before the car came. The blinds were already drawn. The phone was already face-down. The world had already been agreed-upon to not exist for a little while.
“Tell me at three,” she said.
“What if I forget.”
“You won’t.”
“What if I change my mind.”
She moved the two fingers up to his mouth, slow, like she was setting a watch.
“You won’t,” she said.