The distance is always more conspicuous than the closeness, especially coming on the heels of how smoothly he steps around her in the kitchen. It's like-- well, like it's not about her, she thinks. Best guess is: he's worried he'll be too familiar.

But the truth is, she misses it. Which might say something about how abnormal her expectations are, the casual intimacy they've nearly always taken for granted. It all makes sense, but it pushes her a little closer to the question she doesn't want to ask. Not the if-- they were together-- or the what-- she left-- but the why.

The lavender has gone a bit woody, unpruned and wild for-- she doesn't know enough about plants to guess, but surely it doesn't grow that big in a year. It's still spotted with deep purple flowers, though, and she stoops to breathe the scent in, eyes shut, lips curved in a smile.

"It's beautiful," she says. It still is; and she can see how beautiful it must have been in its full glory. "You should keep the flowers."