She sat.
The careful settling of a woman who had just done something she could not undo and was now re-entering the architecture of the world as if the architecture were still the same as it had been twenty minutes ago.
It wasn't.
Her hands found her lap. Her belly, warm under her palm — the circular motion beginning, the thumb tracing the automatic arc. Her other hand came up and she looked at it for a moment. Then at his coat, folded on the seat beside her.
She reached over.
Took the coat.
Pressed the inner lining against her mouth.
The careful dabbing — her eyes lowered, not looking at him, performing the task of cleaning her face with the private focus of someone doing something they would prefer to be invisible. The mascara. The residue. The honest evidence of the last twenty minutes.
She pressed the fabric to her upper lip. Her chin.
Kept her eyes down.
He watched her do it.
