I sat in the back of the car, the engine humming like a restrained predator beneath us, but I didn't hear it.
My eyes were fixed on the bakery window across the street.
Through the glass, my wife laughed at something her coworker said, brushing flour from her cheek with the back of her hand. Her hair was tied up. Her apron crooked.
Her laugh, soundless through the triple-pane glass, still resonated deep within me, a warm, familiar echo. I felt a pang, not of jealousy for the kindly older woman she was bantering with, but of something far more intricate. It was the ache of witnessing a perfect, undisturbed moment, a happiness I wasn't sure I still had a place in.
A muscle in my jaw ticked as her silhouette passed the window again. I pressed my thumb against my knee to keep from getting out of the car and going to her.
I didn't speak.
Didn't breathe.
Just watched.
And wanted.
Just one touch.Just one moment.Just one reminder that she's still here.
